Chprles  Warren  Stoddard 


Mashallahl 

A Flight  into  Egypt . 


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MASHALLAH! 


A FLIGHT  INTO  EGYPT. 


BY 


v/ 


CHARLES  WARREN  STODDARD, 


AUTHOR  OF  “ SOUTH  SEA  IDYLS,”  ETC. 


NEW  YORK: 

D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY, 
1,  3,  abd  5 BOND  STREET. 

1881. 


COPYRIGHT  BY 

D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY. 

1880. 


TO 

MME.  LA  BARONNE  A d’E . 


NOTE. 


The  following  letters  were  written  in  the 
spring  of  1876.  Since  that  time  the  Egyptian 
Government  has  been  severely  shaken  ; but,  like 
those  sand-storms  that  threaten  annihilation,  when 
they  have  passed  over,  the  character  of  the  coun- 
try and  the  people  is  found  unchanged. 

For  this  reason  I trust  my  notes  of  travel  will 
not  be  deemed  out  of  date. 

c.  w.  s. 

San  Francisco,  Cal. 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2016 


https://archive.org/details/mashallahflighti00stod_0 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

I. — Parisian  Days  . . . . .9 

II. — Paris  by  Gaslight.  . . . 19 

III.  — From  the  Latin  Quarter  . . .25 

IV.  — Marseilles  . . . . .33 

V. — Malta  . . . . . .40 

VI. — Alexandria  . . . . .51 

VII. — The  Delta  . . . . .63 

VIII. — Grand  Cairo  ....  75 

IX. — The  Baths  and  the  Bazaars  . . .87 

X. — Mosques  and  Kiosques  ...  98 

XI. — The  Pyramids  .....  109 

XII. — Memphis  and  Sakkarah  . . . 119 

XIII.  — On  the  Nile  .....  128 

XIV.  — An  Arabian  Night  . . . .138 

XV. — Egyptian  Village  Life  ....  151 

XVI. — Temples  and  Tombs  ....  161 

XVII. — Thebes  ......  172 

XVIII. — Fleshpots  . . . . .183 

XIX. — Phil.e  ......  191 

XX. — Down  the  Stream  ....  204 

XXI. — The  Moolid  of  the  Prophet  . . .217 


' 


MASHALLAH! 


A FLIGHT  INTO  EGYPT. 


I. 

PARISIAN  DAYS. 

* 

Hotel  du  Mont  Blanc,  Rije  de  Seine,  Paris. 

A light  fall  very  of  filmy  snow  lies  like  down  in 
the  two  courts  of  the  Grand  Hotel  du  Mont  Blanc. 
There  is  something  laughable  in  the  grandeur  of 
this  dingy  old  caravansary  in  the  heart  of  the 
Latin  Quarter — it  is  so  lacking  in  every  element 
suggested  by  the  name.  It  is  true  we  have  snow 
in  the  two  courts,  and  the  chambers,  spite  of  the 
elegantly  small  French  grates  sunk  away  back 
in  the  chimney,  are  as  cold  as  the  crown  of  the 
great  father  of  mountains ; but,  beyond  this,  I 
don’t  see  the  appropriateness  of  the  title  as  applied 
to  our  hotel.  Your  French  fires  are  too  polite  to 
roar,  and  too  expensive  to  make  up  in  quantity 
what  they  lack  in  quality — at  least  on  this  side  of 
the  river. 


10 


MASHALLAH ! 


We  are  all  Bohemians  together  as  far  as  your 
eyes  can  count  the  clnmney-tops  ; we  glory  in  be- 
ing ill  paid  for  our  works  of  undoubted  genius  ; in 
the  sweat  of  our  faces  we  do  not,  as  a general  thing, 
eat  bread,  though  it  is  always  at  hand,  done  up  in 
crisp  rolls  as  big  around  as  your  arm  and  full  seven 
feet  long;  we  prefer  taking  the  light,  nameless 
dishes  that  are  served  us  over  the  way  by  the 
faithful  and  obliging  Theodore,  and  where  we 
can,  if  we  choose,  leave  “a  promise  to  pay” 
on  the  proprietor’s  book,  where  it  hangs  till 
American  stocks  go  up  in  the  market.  Auto- 
graphs are  worth  something  in  the  Latin  Quar- 
ter, as  almost  any  one  of  us  can  prove  to  you 
toward  the  end  of  the  month.  Students  drift 
naturally  into  the  Quarter,  it  is  so  classical  and  so 
cheap ; and  very  many  of  us  seem  to  find  the 
Mont  Blanc  our  Ararat.  The  house  is  always 
filled  with  young  fellows,  mostly  under  five  and 
twenty  years  of  age,  and  the  majority  of  these  are 
Americans.  I wonder  how  it  is  that  we  all  chance 
to  meet  at  one  board  as  strangers,  to  grow  fond, 
very  fond  of  one  another,  to  go  out  and  come  in 
together,  and,  at  last,  to  part  with  some  show  of 
feeling  (it  is  permissible  in  France),  and  with  a 
sore  heart  that  turns  again  and  again  to  the  old 
haunts,  and  asks  itself  ever  the  same  question? 
“Shall  we  meet  again  as  of  yore,  and  sing  the 
songs  of  the  past,  and  agonize  anew  over  the  finan- 
cial crisis  that  at  times  seemed  to  involve  the  en- 


PARISIAN  DAYS. 


11 


tire  community — yes,  when  even  the  young  repub- 
lic apparently  quakes  to  its  foundation  and  threat- 
ens to  go  to  the  dogs  ? ” Probably  we  never  shall. 
We  fully  realize  this,  and  at  times,  when  the 
thought  strikes  us  with  fullest  force,  we  drink  deep 
potions  of  black  coffee  and  cognac  and  smoke 
wildly  against  the  day  of  our  doom. 

Mont  Blanc,  our  castle,  has  an  uninviting  ap- 
proach ; the  long,  dark  passage  leading  from  the 
street  to  the  court  is  very  like  a carriage  way  ; the 
court  is  as  ugly  as  a stable  ; even  the  small  image 
of  the  Madonna  in  her  niche  above  the  passage 
sheds  no  charitable  glow  over  the  place.  Nor  is 
the  concierge  calculated  to  increase  the  patronage 
of  the  house  by  reason  of  any  charm  either  spirit- 
ual or  material.  She  was  built  for  a very  thin 
little  woman,  whose  perpetual  virtue  was  insured 
by  reason  of  her  excessive  plainness.  Not  satis- 
fied with  her  lot,  she  has  undergone  some  partial 
transformation,  whether  natural  or  artificial  I 
know  not,  which  leads  the  casual  observer  to  sus- 
pect that  she  has  been  blown  up  with  a goose- 
quill  until  her  eyes  no  longer  focus  ; and  yet  she 
impresses  you  as  being  thin.  Her  flesh  is  a de- 
lusion ; her  eyes  alone  are  beyond  question — those 
fatal  orbs  keep  watch  on  two  sides  of  the  court  at 
once.  She  has  knowledge  of  our  most  secret 
movements  ; all  our  hope  is  in  her  charity  and  lov- 
ing kindness.  She  it  is  who  receives  and  distri- 
butes the  welcome  home  letters  ; the  keys  of  our 


12 


HASHALLAH ! 


chambers  hang  in  a row  at  her  side,  and  with  a 
glance  of  her  weather  eye  she  can  call  the  roll  of 
the  house  and  detect  at  once  the  delinquents. 
She  can,  if  she  chooses,  exile  us  from  the  world, 
comparatively,  for  she  has  only  to  tell  inquir- 
ing friends  that  we  are  out,  when  we  are  in,  im- 
patiently awaiting  their  arrival,  whereat  they  cast 
us  off  for  ever  as  being  no  longer  worthy  to  be 
called  friend.  Ah,  these  tyrannous,  omnipresent, 
second-sighted  concierges,  the  destinies  of  France 
lie  in  their  grasp ! If  I have  been  generous  to 
this  little  woman  in  her  sentry-box,  she  will  direct 
you  to  my  chamber  ; I know  this,  and  am  there- 
fore as  generous  as  I can  afford  to  be.  My  key  is 
out,  I am  in  ; concierge  requests  you  to  enter  the 
second  court  and  climb  the  stairs  in  the  farther 
corner  until  you  come  to  the  roof — Room  No. 
55 — this  is  my  home. 

In  the  Latin  Quarter,  the  second  court  is  even 
more  uninviting  than  the  first.  It  has  the  deject- 
ed air  of  a suppressed  monastery.  The  walls  are 
very  high,  and  full  of  long  French  windows  that 
are  closely  curtained,  for  we  live  so  near  together 
in  the  courts  that  it  difficult  to  keep  from  prying 
into  your  neighbor’s  business.  My  stairs  go  round 
and  round  like  a cork-screw  ; on  the  first  landing 
you  will  find  a pair  of  gaiters,  rather  well  worn. 
They  are  always  there  till  noon,  and  I take  it  the 
proprietor  of  these  gaiters,  whoever  he  may  be, 
has  a comprehensive  knowledge  of  Paris  by  gas- 


PARISIAN  DAYS. 


13 


light.  The  second  landing  is  scarcely  more 
promising  ; there  is  a small  kitchen  on  each  floor, 
and  this  one  is  in  use  ; a tidy  woman  is  for  ever 
stewing,  and  loading  the  air  with  garlic.  The 
odor  of  singed  steaks  ascends  to  me  when  I care 
least  for  the  carnal  delights  of  life,  and  I am  cut 
off  in  the  midst  of  my  best  period  by  the  hiss  of 
the  saucepan.  But  I have  a kitchen  all  my  own  ; 
I too  can  fill  the  court  with  the  fumes  of  dinner  at 
whatever  hour  I choose,  though  there  is  only  a 
kind  of  left-handed  consolation  in  the  thought, 
as  I always  go  out  to  dine.  Knock  at  my  door, 
for  you  can  go  no  farther.  Entre  ! A room  no 
bigger  than  a billiard  table,  with  a chimney  fill- 
ing one  side  of  it,  a window  directly  opposite,  a 
door  opening  in  on  one  end  and  one  opening  out 
at  the  other,  for  I sleep  in  the  next  apartment. 
There  is  scarcely  room  on  the  walls  for  the  hand- 
ful of  photographs  one  is  sure  to  take  about  with 
him — the  dear  home  faces  that  do  so  much  to- 
ward making  the  place  habitable.  My  writing- 
table  and  two  chairs  obstruct  the  direct  passage 
from  door  to  door,  and  on  festive  occasion,  when 
as  many  as  six  fellows  have  assembled  at  one  and 
the  same  time,  we  most  of  us  sit  on  the  floor 
and  smoke  like  regular  Turks. 

It  is  hardly  worth  while  looking  into  the  next 
room.  The  French  bed  is  curtained  with  chintz 
of  a pattern  so  like  the  wall-paper  that  they  both 
seem  of  a piece.  A clock,  mirrors,  toilet-stand, 


14 


MASHALLAH ! 


chairs,  and  the  slip  of  carpet  before  the  bed,  that 
is  sure  to  skate  out  from  under  you  over  the 
waxed  floor  just  when  you  are  least  expecting 
such  a catastrophe,  that  is  all,  but  it  is  as  much 
as  you  can  expect  for  the  money.  There  are 
drafts  in  both  rooms.  There  is  no  extra  charge 
for  drafts  ; they  are  not  put  down  in  your  bill 
along  with  the  candle,  the  soap,  the  towel,  and 
the  service.  Every  door,  window,  corner  of  the 
room,  and  crack  in  the  floor  sends  up  its  chilling 
breath,  and  they  all  make  for  the  chimney  with 
the  utmost  speed.  If  you  would  be  warm,  keep 
away  from  the  fire.  It  is  utterly  false,  and  hast- 
ens into  the  flue  as  if  you  hadn’t  paid  for  it  and 
were  not  entitled  to  its  feeble  warmth.  Yet  here 
I write  and  look  out  of  my  window  across  the 
court,  where  one  of  the  boys  is  at  work  on  his 
sketches,  and  the  hours  pass  rather  too  quickly 
(time  never  lags  in  Paris),  for  my  work  ought  to 
be  well  over  before  breakfast.  You  see  we  take 
our  coffee  independently,  when  it  is  most  conve- 
nient, say  anywhere  from  7 to  11  A.  m.  ; coffee  or 
chocolate  and  a bit  of  bread  keep  us  in  working 
trim  until  breakfast. 

Breakfast  is  quite  like  a noon  dinner,  with 
soups  and  dessert,  if  we  prefer  them.  It  begins 
shortly  after  twelve  o’clock  and  lasts  an  hour  or 
two.  We  all  meet  at  breakfast  in  the  cremerie 
over  the  street.  It  is  there  that  Theodore,  who 
is  learning  American  very  rapidly,  attends  to  us 


PARISIAN  DAYS. 


15 


with  a consideration  worthy  of  a man  of  twice 
his  years  and  experience.  The  affairs  of  the  day 
are  duly  canvassed  ; we  plot  a thousand  pleasant 
things  and  live  up  to  about  half  of  them  ; we 
discuss  art,  literature,  the  prime  donne,  music, 
and  the  masque.  We  burn  the  fragrant  weed 
over  tall  glasses  of  black  coffee,  and  grow  boister- 
ous, perchance,  in  argument  or  repartee,  until  a 
flying  missile  lands  in  our  midst — a bread  crust  of 
convenient  caliber — and  civil  war  is  declared  for 
the  space  of  five  minutes.  The  bread  flies  in  all 
directions  ; the  old  frequenters  of  the  cremerie 
look  on  with  a half-smile,  as  if  they  could  excuse 
this  sort  of  thing  in  Americans,  but  in  no  other 
people.  Those  who  are  new  to  us  are  filled  with 
astonishment  and  alarm,  and  the  plump  proprie- 
tor, who  has  been  sitting  along  with  his  pretty 
niece  in  the  pulpit  by  the  door,  descends  upon  us 
like  an  irate  pedagogue,  and  we  are  persuaded  to 
silence  and  decorum.  Between  breakfast  and 
dinner  there  are  six  hours  at  our  disposal.  We 
revisit  the  Louvre  and  the  Luxembourg  for  the 
fiftieth  time,  going  now  to  our  favorite  pictures 
and  statues,  and  ignoring  the  miles  of  canvas  and 
the  quarries  of  marble  that  surround  us  on  every 
side.  Some  of  us  return  to  work  at  the  atelier, 
the  studio,  the  chamber,  wherever  our  work  lies. 
We  wander  thither,  singly  or  in  pairs,  and  the 
cremerie  is  left  totally  deserted.  Dinner  is  even 
more  joyous  than  breakfast,  for  we  have  probably 


16 


MASHALLAH ! 


accomplished  something,  and  our  work  is  over  for 
the  day.  We  sit  two  or  three  hours  at  table ; 
nothing  but  an  early  theatre  or  an  engagement 
can  turn  us  away  from  the  luxury  of  our  evening 
meal.  But  the  cremerie  closes  early,  and  we  are 
gradually  snuffed  out  of  the  establishment  as  the 
gas-jets  are  extinguished  one  by  one.  Then 
come  visitations  among  the  boys.  There  is  a 
wide  range  of  haunts  to  choose  from ; you  can 
take  a Bohemian  quarter  like  my  own,  for  in- 
stance, one  of  those  cheerless  resting-places  such 
as  a fellow  on  the  wing  grows  horribly  used  to,  or 
you  can  climb  into  a cozy  nook  in  some  great 
building  where  a resident  student  has  feathered 
a nest  for  himself  and  is  making  the  best  of  his 
life  abroad.  Here  you  find  pictures,  statuettes,  a 
piano,  a fire  that  is  positively  cheerful,  and  a 
kettle  that  sings  in  the  corner  of  the  grate — for 
there  is  something  warming  in  perspective.  Per- 
haps it  is  chess,  or  cards,  or  music,  or  story-tell- 
ing ; certainly  it  is  the  social  pipe,  and  a few 
genial  and  wholesome  hours  that  end  too  early. 
We  are  not  always  decorous  in  the  Mont  Blanc  ; 
there  is  a room  on  the  top  floor  front  that  has 
known  the  wildest  revels,  and  this  too  at  the  most 
unseasonable  hours.  I would  gladly  frown  upon 
this  thing  and  point  a moral,  though  I am  un- 
skilled in  that  line,  but  I happen  to  have  been 
one  of  the  revelers.  The  South  was  entertaining 
the  North  with  champagne  and  cigars  one  even- 


PARISIAN  DAYS. 


17 


ing  ; from  Maine  to  California  there  was  the  best 
possible  feeling,  and  the  South  was,  in  turn,  em- 
braced by  representatives  from  the  proudest  cities 
of  our  land.  After  our  reconciliation,  when  the 
hour  for  story-telling  had  set  in,  and  each  in  his 
turn  was  prepared  to  outdo  his  neighbor  in  a 
lively  but  generous  spirit  of  rivalry,  we  were  in- 
terrupted by  the  approach  of  heavy  feet,  and  the 
opening  and  severe  slamming  of  the  door  in  the 
room  next  ours.  He  was  a Frenchman,  and  it 
was  his  custom  to  put  off  his  shoes  five  minutes 
after  his  entrance  and  dash  them  down  in  the 
hall  with  unnecessary  and  objectionable  violence. 
Again  he  would  crash  his  door  and  then  retire  to 
rest.  This  thing  had  been  done  too  often  in  the 
dead  of  night,  when  the  whole  house  was  thrown 
into  a state  of  alarm,  to  be  any  longer  passed  over 
in  silence  by  the  United  States  of  America.  We 
resolved  that,  if  that  Frenchman  hurled  his  boots 
into  the  hall  that  night  (or  rather  morning),  he 
would  do  it  at  his  peril.  We  held  our  breath  to 
listen  ; his  door  was  suddenly  clutched  and  thrown 
open  ; the  boots  thundered  on  the  hall  floor  ; the 
door  was  shut  with  a terrific  report,  and  at  that 
moment  we  howled  in  chorus.  France  and  the 
United  States  are  supposed  to  be  on  the  best  pos- 
sible terms  ; no  doubt  they  are,  over  the  river,  but 
in  the  Latin  Quarter,  America  will  no  longer  en- 
danger her  tympanum  by  nightly  permitting  the 
violent  explosion  of  French  shoe-leather  immedi- 
2 


18 


MASHALLAH ! 


ately  under  her  ears.  “We  flew  into  the  long, 
waxed  hall ; impelled  by  patriotism  and  cham- 
pagne we  dashed  those  hoots  throughout  the 
building,  up  stairs  and  down,  out  of  windows 
into  the  court,  and  back  again  through  space, 
skillfully  caught  on  the  fly  by  Chicago  ; up  to  the 
ceiling  again  and  again,  and  then  bowled  over  the 
shining  floor,  those  boots  did  more  duty  in  fifteen 
minutes  than  ever  before  since  they  were  first 
pulled  from  the  original  last.  And  then,  ex- 
hausted, beginning  to  find  life  a burden,  and  to 
fear  that  we  had  few  if  any  friends  in  this  world, 
in  fact,  suddenly  realizing  that  we  were  perhaps 
all  orphans,  or  deserved  to  be,  we  embraced  madly 
and  went  shrieking  to  our  several  apartments. 
Our  concierge  the  next  day  was  not  kindly  dis- 
posed toward  us.  She  took  us  each  in  turn,  as 
we  contributed  our  keys  to  the  rack  in  her  sentry- 
box,  and  reproached  us  bitterly.  I saw  Chicago, 
speechless  but  defiant,  receiving  the  brunt  of  the 
abuse.  It  was  emphasized  with  a long  wand 
which  was  waved  fiercely  in  the  air,  but  there 
was  no  personal  violence,  nor  the  administration 
of  anything  more  unpalatable  than  a torrent  of 
French  invective,  strengthened  with  much  offen- 
sive truth.  Take  the  head  of  an  india-rubber 
doll,  apply  your  thumb  and  finger  to  either  ear, 
compress  the  skull  till  your  thumb  and  finger 
meet,  and  the  eyes  of  the  doll  slide  on  to  each 
side  of  the  face,  like  the  eyes  of  a fish,  and  you 


PARIS  BY  GASLIGHT. 


19 


have  the  very  image  of  our  concierge  as  she  ap- 
peared the  morning  after  the  sacking  of  the  house. 
Some  of  us  left  for  our  health  ; we  wanted  quiet 
apartments  where  our  friends  would  not  be  turned 
forth  into  the  street  with  a smile  and  a he. 


II. 

PARIS  BY  GASLIGHT. 

Hotel  do  Mont  Blanc,  Rue  de  Seine,  Paris. 

Our  hotel  is  like  a great  boys’  hoarding-school. 
We  from  time  to  time  smoke  out  our  neighbors  in 
the  most  playful  manner.  We  occasionally  in- 
dulge in  a light  engagement  with  pillows,  robed 
in  the  brief  garments  of  our  sleep.  We  are  not 
always  sleepy,  and  perhaps  would  fain  return 
again  to  citizens’  dress,  and  go  forth  seeking  the 
untimely  veal  pie,  which  is  obtainable  at  a re- 
duced rate  owing  to  the  lateness  of  the  hour  and 
the  unfavorable  symptoms  already  developing  in 
the  pie  ; we  sometimes  do  this,  and  at  such  times 
we  find  it  a merciful  relief  from  the  tedious  gaye- 
ties  of  the  French  capital ; but  just  now  we  are 
called  into  action  by  the  bare-kneed  battalion, 
heavily  mounted,  and  all  thoughts  of  pie  are 
driven  from  our  minds  till  after  the  heat  of  the 
engagement  has  subsided  and  there  are  signs  of 
returning  peace.  This  sort  of  thing  doesn’t  hap- 


20 


MASTTAT.T.ATT  ! 


pen.  every  night ; believe  it  not  of  us,  for  we  are, 
after  all,  workers,  and  pretty  hard  ones,  too. 
Not  one  of  ns  but  has  ambition,  not  one  but 
hopes  to  return  to  his  distant  home  with  a record 
that  will  gladden  the  hearts  of  those  who  have 
been  hoping  and  praying  for  him  all  these  months. 
We.  must  have  our  recreation.  Great  Heaven  ! 
would  you  have  us  old  before  our  time  ? Dull- 
hearted,  stiff-jointed,  sad-eyed  things  who  have 
lost  the  faculty  of  enjoyment  ? Hence  the  medi- 
cinal properties  of  the  Boullier  are  strongly  urged, 
and  we  hie  us  with  expectant  steps  to  the  gay- 
halls  where  sin  skips  nimbly  arm  in  arm  with 
innocence  and  verdancy  and  the  inquiring  mind 
of  the  curious  and  the  passive  spirit  of  the  travel- 
ing correspondent.  Away  beyond  the  lovely  gar- 
dens of  the  Luxembourg,  the  gardens  of  our 
quarter,  is  the  Boullier,  with  a dazzling  array  of 
gas-jets  flaming  over  its  facade.  We  fall  in  along 
the  line  of  visitors  besieging  the  ticket  office,  in 
our  turn  pay  a franc  admission,  and  the  next 
moment  find  ourselves  at  the  top  of  a broad 
flight  of  stairs  leading  into  a gorgeous  cellar. 
The  decorations  are  Moorish  or  mongrel,  I know 
not  which ; but  they  are  sufficiently  garish  to 
suit  the  character  of  the  place.  In  the  center  of 
the  great  hall  is  an  oasis  filled  with  musicians. 
They  smoke,  chat,  lean  over  the  railing  with  hats 
on  the  backs  of  their  heads,  and  are  quite  indif- 
ferent to  the  opinion  of  any  one  present.  Per- 


PARIS  BY  GASLIGHT. 


21 


haps  they  are  right.  Who  cares  for  the  opinion 
of  any  one  here,  though  we  ourselves  are  of  the 
number  ? The  time  and  the  place  annul  all  cau- 
tion, pride,  modesty — everything,  in  fact,  save  a 
desire  to  smoke  and  quench  one’s  thirst  and  be 
jolly.  A thousand  lamps  of  every  lovely  tint 
swing  from  the  painted  ceiling,  and  the  many, 
arches  supported  by  light  columns  are  again  and 
again  repeated  in  the  long  mirrors  that  line  the 
walls.  At  the  end  of  the  hall  is  a pretty  artificial 
garden,  with  its  grottoes  and  its  pools  of  goldfish, 
its  fountains,  statues,  and  beds  of  lovely  flowers  ; 
and  everywhere  there  are  small  round  tables 
thronged  with  men  and  women  who  do  nothing 
but  drink,  drink,  drink,  and  smoke  and  laugh 
boisterously. 

Crash ! the  music  has  begun  ! There  is  a 
rush  for  the  open  spaces,  where  only  is  dancing 
possible ; there  is  no  director  nor  floor-manager, 
no  method  at  all ; every  one  looks  out  for  himself 
or  herself,  and  somehow  out  of  the  confusion  a 
quadrille  is  formed  in  one  corner,  and  then  an- 
other and  another,  until  there  are  a dozen  of 
them  well  at  work,  or  at  play,  which  is  it  ? — and 
by  this  time  the  first  figure  of  the  set  is  over. 
The  spectators  crowd  close  about  the  dancers,  and 
are  often  troublesome.  This  is  the  kingdom  of 
license,  and  you  may  say  what  you  please  to  any 
one,  dance  with  whom  you  choose,  do  what  you 
like  ; in  truth  you  are  expected  not  to  be  stupid 


22 


MASHALLAH ! 


when  you  come*  to  the  Boullier.  As  the  dance 
progresses  the  interest  increases,  for  the  dancers 
become  heated,  and  it  is  only  at  such  times  that 
the  can-can  is  endurable.  The  shrill  music  crash- 
es through  the  liveliest  figure  of  the  quadrille  ; we 
work  our  way  into  the  crowd  until  we  can  stand 
on  tip-toe  and  look  over  some  one’s  shoulder. 
Before  us  are  two  couples,  very  young  ones,  but 
with  strangely  wise  faces,  worldly  wise  I mean, 
and  with  a kind  of  devilish  grace  in  their  every 
motion  that  fascinates  you.  They  advance  and 
recede  with  infinite  swagger.  They  throw  them- 
selves suddenly  into  attitudes  that  defy  descrip- 
tion ; as  well  attempt  to  picture  in  words  the 
writhing  of  a tigress  as  she  plays  with  her  young  ; 
the  voluptuous  posing,  the  quivering  of  the  supple 
limbs,  the  curving  of  the  spine  and  the  waving  to 
and  fro  of  the  head,  snake-like  and  full  of  cun- 
ning ; the  sly,  soft  crouching  that  indicate  a pre- 
meditated spring.  Whoop  la!  There  you  have 
it ! The  men — they  are  mere  boys — dash  their 
genteel  beavers  on  to  the  napes  of  their  necks, 
seize  the  skirts  of  their  coats,  and  go  through  a 
series  of  gymnastic  feats  as  ludicrous  as  they  are 
ungraceful.  The  women — they  are  girls — switch 
up  their  skirts  above  the  knee,  and  deliberately 
kick  over  the  heads  of  their  partners.  Not  satis- 
fied with  this  display,  one  of  them  grasps  her 
ankle  with  one  hand  and  raises  it  above  her  head, 
where  she  waves  her  dainty  boot  to  and  fro,  keep- 


PARIS  BY  GASLIGHT. 


23 


ing  time  to  the  music.  The  other  turns  a clumsy 
summersault  and  lands  in  the  center  of  the  open 
space,  where  she  rests  with  her  two  feet  pointing 
north  and  south,  quite  in  the  manner  of  a circus 
boy  when  he  spreads  his  legs  sideways  like  a pair 
of  compasses,  and  this  is  hailed  with  delight  by 
the  spectators.  There  is  nothing  after  that  save 
a repetition  of  the  same  sort  of  ungraceful  climax, 
and  even  the  dancers  seem  to  grow  weary  of  it, 
for  they  seldom  finish  the  last  figure,  but  turn 
away  and  lose  themselves  in  the  crowd.  Every  al- 
ternate dance  is  a can-can  quadrille,  between 
which  come  waltzes,  polkas,  etc.  It  is  in  the 
waltz  only  that  the  dancers  display  the  daring 
that  alone  makes  the  Boullier  attractive  or  even 
interesting.  Yet  three  times  a week  this  hall  is 
filled  from  9 p.  m.  to  midnight ; the  low  gallery 
on  three  sides  of  it  is  always  crowded  with  specta- 
tors, who  sit  at  their  tables  with  beer  and  cigars, 
and  watch  the  dancers  to  the  end.  You  will 
find  every  class  of  people  at  the  Boullier  and 
the  other  dance  halls  of  Paris  where  the  reputa- 
tion of  the  dancers  is  dubious.  English  swells  in 
monk-like  ulsters  sometimes  have  with  them  a 
fair  companion  (let  us  trust  she  is  fair),  who  is 
closely  veiled,  who  never  for  a moment  quits  his 
side,  who  is  evidently  shy  and  out  of  place,  and  is 
probably  his  bride.  The  American  is  there,  feel- 
ing quite  at  home,  and  refusing  to  be  astonished 
at  anything  Parisian. 


24 


MASHALLAH ! 


We  are  there  sometimes,  many  of  us  togeth- 
er ; we  look  on  at  the  same  old  dances,  as  danced 
by  the  same  old  dancers,  who  are  mostly  pro- 
fessionals hired  for  the  occasion.  We  have  learned 
to  know  the  faces  of  many  who  go  always  to  these 
halls  ; we  can  now  point  you  to  the  best  set  of  can- 
can dancers,  who  show  infinite  art  and  exquisite 
grace  in  their  interpretation  of  this  barbaric  pan- 
tomime. We  lounge  about  till  the  air  has  become 
utterly  oppressive  with  the  smoke  and  the  heat 
and  the  hubbub.  Late  in  the  night  there  is  no- 
thing but  riot ; loud,  meaningless  laughter ; the 
skipping  to  and  fro  of  those  who  have  but  one 
desire  left,  and  that  is  to  create  as  much  disturb- 
ance on  as  small  a capital  as  possible.  We  with- 
draw while  the  room  is  still  in  a whirl,  and  the 
dancers  at  the  farther  end  of  the  room  float  about 
in  the  thick  smoke  like  ghosts ; while  the  click 
of  glasses  and  the  screams  of  unnatural  joy  mingle 
and  are  lost  in  the  deafening  crash  of  the  orches- 
tra. Probably  we  go  down  the  street  arm  in  arm, 
singing  the  songs  of  home,  such  as  “Silver 
Threads,”  “ Senators,  whar  you  goin’?”  and  other 
airs  with  which  it  is  our  delight  to  astonish  the 
fat  cabmen,  those  rosy  fellows  who  line  the  street 
at  the  most  unearthly  hours,  and  who  look  all 
alike,  with  a likeness  that  is  of  nothing  in  heaven 
nor  earth,  nor  the  waters  under  the  earth,  but 
only  of  the  sleepy,  sleek,  round,  expressionless 
cabmen  of  Paris.  Having  aroused  many  sleepers 


FROM  THE  LATIN  QUARTER. 


25 


with  the  fierce  rendering  of  favorite  national  airs, 
and  attracted  the  attention  of  a brace  of  gen- 
darmes, the  handsomest  and  most  elegant  fellows 
in  Paris,  we  come  home  to  the  Mont  Blanc,  ring 
up  the  night-watchman,  who  sleeps  with  a rope 
just  over  his  head,  and  in  his  dream  pulls  the 
heavy  lock  on  the  outer  door  without  waking ; 
pushing  in  the  swinging  panel  in  the  great  door, 
the  great  door  which  is  not  opened  till  morning, 
we  light  our  respective  candles,  take  keys,  and  bid 
farewell  to  one  another  and  to  the  frivolities  of 
life  in  general,  and  go  yawning  to  our  beds. 


III. 

FROM  THE  LATIN  QUARTER. 

Hotel  du  Mont  Blanc,  Rtje  de  Seine,  Paris. 

For  two  months  I seem  to  have  been  dashed 
from  one  extreme  to  another,  through  the  widest 
range  of  experiences  I have  ever  known  in  so  brief 
a time  in  a single  locality.  The  Latin  Quarter  is 
not  in  itself  altogether  lovely ; the  streets  are 
tangled  and  narrow  and  unclean.  The  houses  are 
mostly  ugly.  We  have  the  fine  church  of  St. 
Sulpice  only  a stone’s  throw  distant,  and  close  at 
hand  is  beautiful  old  St.  Germain,  the  oldest  and 
perhaps  most  picturesque  church  in  Paris,  with 
its  frescoes  by  that  devout  Catholic  artist,  Hippo- 


26 


MASHALLAH ! 


lyte  Flandrin.  Around  the  corner  is  the  small 
house  with  the  turret  and  the  grated  windows 
where  Charlotte  Corday  dealt  death  to  Marat ; but 
the  whole  corner  is  being  swept  away  to  make 
room  for  newer  and  less  interesting  buildings.  All 
up  and  down  these  streets  there  are  shops  where 
antique  books,  prints,  and  all  manner  of  bric-a- 
brac  may  be  bargained  for.  The  Seine  is  lined 
with  vendors  of  cheap  literature  ; near  St.  Sulpice 
there  is  an  inexhaustible  store  of  sacred  prints, 
medals,  rosaries,  and  church  furniture.  Indeed, 
you  can  get  almost  anything  you  wish  on  our  side 
of  the  river,  and  you  will  get  it  for  half  the  price 
that  is  demanded  on  the  Eue  de  Bivoli.  It  is  not 
this  alone  which  makes  the  Quarter  a desirable 
residence  for  a student  of  limited  means  ; here  he 
can  live  as  he  sees  fit  and  no  man  shall  say  him 
yea  or  nay. 

See  how  my  days  have  passed  in  Paris,  and 
tell  me  if  they  be  not  full  of  experience.  After 
my  coffee,  which  I too  often  take  quite  alone,  I 
hasten  to  the  bedside  of  a friend  lying  danger- 
ously ill  in  a convent  at  the  other  end  of  the  city. 
Her  illness,  her  fatal  illness,  alone  gains  me  ad- 
mission into  the  seclusion  of  this  serene  retreat. 
For  one  hour — having  been  admitted  through  the 
ponderous  gates  into  a garden  where  the  statue  of 
the  Madonna,  now  packed  in  straw  to  protect  it 
against  the  frosts,  is  covered  with  shivering  birds, 
who  cling  to  it  for  a little  warmth — having  found 


FROM  THE  LATIN  QUARTER. 


27 


my  friend  better  or  worse,  as  the  case  may  be, 
for  one  hour  I know  the  impressive  silence  of  the 
sick-chamber,  and  know  also  the  companionship 
of  those  low-voiced  sisters,  whose  lives  are  sealed 
to  suffering  and  death.  When  my  visitation  is 
over,  I find  that  I am  booked  for  breakfast  with 
that  capital  fellow,  the  author  of  “My  Paris,” 
when  I am  sure  of  absorbing  something  of  his 
exhilarating  atmosphere.  Having  quitted  his 
chambers  with  a freshly-lit  cigar,  I return  to 
work.  Or,  if  I am  out  of  working  humor,  there 
is  the  studio  of  a young  marine  painter,  of  Phila- 
delphia, away  up  in  a splendid  old  abbey,  where 
at  night  the  rustle  of  silk  is  heard  and  muttering 
voices,  where  shadowy  forms  float  about  in  the 
moonlight.  What  a strange,  unwritten  history 
that  abbey  must  have  ! Just  now  Philadelphia’s 
unrivaled  collection  of  pipes  interests  us  more 
deeply,  and  we  smoke,  and  dream  of  his  moonlit 
seas  and  wild  bits  of  windy  coast,  and  talk  largely 
of  the  Centennial.  Or,  it  may  be,  I find  my  way 
to  California’s  den,  decorated  with  studies  that 
range  from  Shasta  to  the  sea. 

In  the  intervals  ’twixt  my  early  visit  and  my 
late  revisit  to  the  chamber  of  sorrow  and  suffer- 
ing, many  little  events  occur  ; too  many  to  be  re- 
corded, and  too  uneventful,  most  of  them,  to  be 
worth  recording.  Often  I have  turned  in  at  the 
Morgue,  and  found  it  usually  the  favorite  resort 
of  very  small  children  ; boys  and  girls  running  on 


28 


MASHALLAH ! 


errands  make  it  convenient  to  look  in  at  the  dis- 
colored bodies  stretched  stark  and  stiff  under  the 
•water-spout,  with  a great  horror  settled  on  their 
faces.  Peace  comes  not  to  these  suicides  and 
these  victims  of  hunger  and  rage.  Even  under  the 
shadow  of  Notre  Dame,  almost  within  the  glow 
of  the  tapers  that  flicker  before  the  altar  of  our 
Blessed  Lady  of  Victories,  they  lie  there,  the  for- 
saken victims  of  hopeless  defeat.  Again  and 
again  I turn  to  seek  consolation  by  the  domestic 
hearth  of  San  Francisco  friends,  where  I am  sure 
of  a welcome  and  a dinner  of  home  dishes,  such 
as  are  as  good  for  the  heart-hungry  as  for  those 
whose  cravings  are  more  carnal.  There  is  one 
restaurant  where  we  boys  resort  to  restore  our 
souls  at  an  extravagant  figure.  The  American 
patriot  and  the  pancake  are  inseparable ; misery 
and  mince-pie  can  not  dwell  under  the  same  roof. 
We  are,  for  the  time  being,  happy  and  patriotic 
to  the  last  degree.  What  shall  I say  of  the  chaste 
retreat,  the  dainty  drawing-room,  done  up  in  the 
Louis  XIV  style,  with  its  variegated  upholstery, 
its  cupids,  its  clocks,  its  screens,  and  the  thousand 
and  one  bits  of  finery  that  make  the  whole  look 
like  a big  play-house  ? Here  I meet  old  friends, 
and  we  live  over  again  the  California  days. 

Writing  of  extremes,  I think  of  my  Latin- 
Quarter  attic,  dingy,  cheerless,  drafty,  and  I turn 
from  it  to  the  palace  of  Monte  Cristo,  just  for  the 
novelty  of  the  change.  Last  winter  in  Venice 


FROM  THE  LATIN  QUARTER. 


29 


the  Egyptian  steamer  brought  an  addition  to  our 
small  foreign  colony.  Coming,  as  he  did,  fresh 
from  Egypt,  where  his  life  had  been  a kind  of 
dream,  an  episode  in  an  Arabian  night,  we  were 
drawn  to  one  another  intuitively  ; and  when,  af- 
ter a few  days,  he  left  Venice,  I thought  it  more 
than  likely  that  we  should  not  meet  again.  But 
who  shall  say  what  is  not  possible  in  Paris  ? 
One  friend  in  her  convent  passing  away  in  the 
midst  of  perpetual  prayers  and  entreaties  ; but  a 
few  blocks  distant  another  friend  waiting  to  wel- 
come me.  The  latter  had  been  home  ; had  flown 
hither  and  thither  in  search  of  health  and  rest ; 
was  back  again  in  Paris,  and  hard  at  work.  I 
was  shown  to  his  reception-room,  in  a house  hid- 
den away  in  one  of  those  cloister-like  inclosures 
called  a cite.  Monte  Cristo  was  at  home,  and 
came  forward  to  greet  me  in  his  fez.  Turkish 
tapestries  covered  the  four  walls ; Arabian  rugs 
lay  on  the  floor,  lapped  one  over  the  other  ; Per- 
sian lanterns  of  stained  glass  hung  from  the  ceil- 
ing, and  threw  an  enchanting  light  over  the  scene  ; 
the  windows  and  the  doors  were  entirely  hidden 
by  rich  draperies ; the  mirror  above  the  mantel 
was  obscured  by  clusters  of  Eastern  palms — baby 
palms  in  porcelain  cradles,  but  lusty  and  vigorous 
palms  for  all  that.  One  side  of  the  room  was 
filled  with  a deep  divan  of  satin  and  silk,  heaped 
with  cushions  and  embroidered  coverings.  The 
center-table  was  one  monument  of  mellow-tinted. 


30 


MASHALLAH ! 


thick-crusted  silk  embroidery — antique,  camphor- 
ated, beautiful  for  ever.  Venetian  and  Egyptian 
studies  were  heaped  about  the  room,  and  a thou- 
sand dainty  ornaments  were  displayed.  A bazaar 
of  Cairo  is  not  more  tantalizing  than  this  artistic 
bachelor-haunt.  What  if  we  sat  after  dinner 
curled  up  on  the  divan  and  smoked  the  nargileh, 
and  then,  like  children  decked  in  the  sumptuous 
finery  of  the  far  East,  burnt  pastils  and  dreamed 
dreams  and  played  at  being  weary  of  life,  and 
wondered  what  pyramid  should  hold  our  em- 
balmed dust  when  we  had  at  last  smoked  our- 
selves to  death  ? Coffee  came  in  its  own  good 
time,  and  in  cups  of  such  exquisite  workmanship 
that,  but  for  the  richly-fretted  network  of  gold 
that  encased  the  fragile  porcelain  shells,  they  must 
have  been  crushed  in  the  fingers.  Oh  ! but  that 
is  the  royal  road  to  success  ! 

My  friend  has  passed  from  earth  ; almost  alone 
in  this  great  city.  Death  and  separation  immi- 
nent have  cast  a shadow  over  the  last  few  days. 
The  boys  are  going  home ; some  of  them  for 
good,  others  to  return  anon  ; but  I know  the  old 
place  will  never  be  quite  the  same.  No  more  pri- 
vate dinners  in  L.’s  room  ; no  silver  flutings  from 
the  lips  of  F.  F.,  of  Winona  ; no  festive  nights  at 
the  chambers  in  the  Mont  Blanc ; even  D.  will 
have  gone  home  to  build  up  his  native  city  and 
his  reputation  at  one  and  the  same  time.  And 
he  whom  we  have  looked  upon  as  a model  of  all 


FROM  THE  LATIN  QUARTER. 


31 


the  virtues,  yet  whose  buff  overcoat  we  were  sure 
to  see  at  the  Boullier  when  least  expected,  it  may 
be  he  will  lose  his  good  name  and  become  virtu- 
ous in  very  truth.  Dublin  will  have  grown  seri- 
ous, and  Pard  gay ; in  fact,  we  won’t  any  of  us 
know  the  other  in  a very  brief  season,  the  more’s 
the  pity.  Inasmuch  as  we  all  fully  realize  this, 
we  have  been  rushing  to  and  fro  with  albums, 
gathering  autographic  sketches  in  memory  of  the 
time.  Some  of  these  are  exceedingly  fine,  and 
all  are  just  the  sort  of  reminders  that  will  by  and 
by  make  the  heart  beat  a little  faster  when  we 
turn  the  leaves  and  know  the  fate  that  is  in  store 
for  each  of  us.  I can  not  reproduce  for  you  the 
sketches,  but  you  shall  have  some  lines  I am  per- 
mitted to  copy ; they  will  show  you  the  spirit 
that  pervades  the  Quarter,  for  they  are  out  of  one 
of  the  albums  I have  referred  to.  They  are 
called 

AT  PARTING. 

Only  a page  in  your  book 

Along  with  the  other  fellows ; 

I hate  to  stop  out  in  the  cold,  dear  Lin, 

Cut  off  with  the  “ sears  ” and  the  “ yellows.” 

Only  a scratch  of  my  pen, 

That  stumbles  even  in  starting, 

For  I can’t  say  half  of  the  things  I feel 
As  I cling  to  your  hand  at  parting. 

Only  a dinner  or  two 

In  a warm,  cozy  corner  that  we  know ; 


32 


MASHALLAH 1 


Only  a smoke  with  the  rest  of  the  boys, 

Or  a night  at  the  Valentino ! 

Only  a meeting  by  chance, 

And  a parting — by  Jove  1 yet  not  only — 

Again  I shall  think  of  them  all,  and  again, 

In  the  hours  that  are  sure  to  be  lonely. 

Only  a jingle  of  rhymes 

For  the  sake  of  the  days  that  are  over — 

The  days  that  shall  live  in  the  happiest  dreams 
That  lighten  the  heart  of  a rover ! 

That  is  the  end  of  it  all ! Without  one  farewell, 
taking  my  last  dinner  quite  alone,  so  as  to  save 
myself  the  pain  of  parting,  I sprang  into  a car- 
riage and  fled  to  the  Lyons  station.  It  was  a 
long,  cold  drive.  I thought  of  a thousand  things, 
hut  I didn’t  think  that  my  flight  would  be  dis- 
covered, and  that  at  that  moment  there  was  a 
carriage  in  the  rear  tearing  after  me ! They 
caught  me,  some  of  those  dear  fellows,  just  as  I 
was  being  hurried  away  by  the  guard.  One  swift, 
manly  embrace,  a grip  of  the  hand  that  made  my 
blood  tingle,  a last  look  into  the  brave,  earnest 
faces  I have  grown  so  used  to,  and  the  next  mo- 
ment I was  rushing  out  of  the  bracing  bitterness 
of  the  Paris  winter,  flying  southward  in  the  track 
of  the  swallows. 


MARSEILLES. 


33 


IV. 


MARSEILLES. 

Venice,  Genoa,  and  Marseilles,  liow  the  gold- 
en wave  of  commerce  that  rolls  in  from  the 
Orient  has  heaped  their  thresholds  with  rich  and 
splendid  freights ! They  are  much  alike,  these 
storehouses  of  gums  and  spices,  and  cloths  of 
gold  and  camel’s  hair.  Under  my  window  in 
Marseilles,  a window  that  opens  upon  the  great 
harbor,  and  looks  up  to  the  church  of  Notre 
Dame  de  la  Garde,  on  its  holy  hill,  under  my  win- 
dow I hear  all  the  tongues  of  Babel,  and  see  all 
the  costumes  of  the  earth  mixing  hourly  in  the 
carnival  of  this  seaport  life.  There  are  proud 
Moors  who  stalk  by  with  the  stateliness  of  Salvini 
in  Othello ; the  Spaniard  and  the  East  Indian  go 
hand  in  hand ; the  Turk,  the  Italian,  and  the 
Dane  hobnob  with  the  Yankee  skipper,  who  in- 
dulges in  a little  French  when  opportunity  offers, 
but  it  is  the  execrable  French  of  South  France, 
and  suffers  a sad  change  in  the  lips  of  the  skip- 
per, which  puts  it  quite  beyond  the  interpretation 
of  the  most  ingenious  linguist.  Just  below  the 
hotel  there  is  an  entertainment  loudly  heralded 
by  a trumpeter  as  black  as  a burnt  cork.  You 
enter  the  harem  by  the  polite  invitation  of  a port- 
ly gentleman  in  a fez  and  scarlet  “bloomers”; 

3 


34 


MASHaLLAH ! 


•within  there  is  a divan  on  which  reclines  a lovely 
hut  expressionless  creature,  who  smokes  the  long- 
stemmed water-pipe  of  her  country,  and  makes 
enormous  eyes  at  you.  Two  or  three  sleepy  fel- 
lows sit  about,  and  look  excessively  bored  ; they 
are  the  vigilant  guardians  of  the  seraglio.  Half 
a watch  of  sailors,  a soldier,  a Spanish  merchant, 
and  myself  stand  in  a row  and  look  blandly  on. 
The  houri  yawns  and  smiles ; the  eunuchs  nod 
and  grin  ; we  of  the  audience  turn  to  one  anoth- 
er, burst  into  a smothered  laugh,  and  withdraw 
in  a body,  leaving  two  sous  each  with  the  Pacha, 
who  thanks  us  in  Italian.  The  bazaars  are  open 
all  along  the  quay,  and  small  cargoes  of  stuffs 
from  foreign  ports  are  hid  off  rapidly  at  auction 
in  the  very  midst  of  the  pavement. 

It  is  spring  weather  in  January ; the  doors  and 
windows  are  flung  wide  open  ; the  Tivoli  Gardens 
at  the  end  of  the  charming  Prado,  an  avenue  that 
must  be  a perpetual  benediction  in  the  heat  of 
midsummer,  are  all  in  blossom,  and  the  fountain 
that  glorifies  the  handsome  and  rather  eccentric- 
looking Musee  de  Long  champ  doesn’t  chill  you 
with  its  spray,  even  in  midwinter.  Only  to 
think  that  we  are  but  sixteen  hours  from  Paris, 
where  they  are  skating  in  the  Bois  and  throwing 
cinders  on  the  street  to  keep  the  horses  from  fall- 
ing ! At  the  Musee  the  two  wings  of  the  build- 
ing, or  rather  the  two  buildings,  are  connected  by 
a stately  colonnade,  and  a large  fountain  or  water- 


MARSEILLES. 


35 


fall  gushes  from  the  midst  thereof.  You  stand 
at  the  foot  of  the  long  stairs  and  look  up  at  this 
fountain  ; then  you  ascend  a little  way  and  glance 
across  it ; after  that  you  beam  down  from  the 
colonnade  upon  the  torrent  of  water  under  you, 
and  hear  its  roar  all  about  you,  and  meet  scores  of 
people,  who  are  doing  the  fountain,  like  yourself, 
full  of  wonder  and  delight.  The  canvases  that 
have  been  immortalized  by  Perugino,  Kubens, 
Yan  Dyck,  and  Holbein  are  not  to  be  thought  of 
until  the  great  fountain  has  been  duly  admired  ; 
in  truth,  I fancy  that  most  of  us  prefer  lounging 
about  among  the  Ionic  columns  that  spring  from 
beds  of  lilies  and  water-plants  to  studying  the 
master  works  within.  Marseilles  is  so  lively  and  so 
fresh  looking  that  you  would  never  for  a moment 
suspect  it  of  having  a history.  Paris  or  Vienna 
might  easily  absorb  much  of  the  city,  and  you 
would  not  detect  any  material  difference  in  the 
aspect  or  the  atmosphere  of  either.  Yet  Massilia 
was  six  hundred  years  of  age  when  Christ  came 
into  the  world.  Agricola  went  to  boarding-school 
in  Marseilles,  for  in  those  days  it  was  quite  as 
Greek  as  Athens,  and  perhaps  Agricola’s  father 
thought  it  a trifle  ahead  of  the  latter.  You  know 
Tacitus  married  into  the  family  and  recorded  this 
fact.  There  was  a Temple  of  Diana  on  the  site 
of  the  present  cathedral,  and  Neptune  and  Apollo 
were  worshiped  on  the  coast.  Leaning  over  the 
fine  terrace  in  front  of  the  cathedral — it  is  not 


36 


HASHALLAH ! 


yet  completed — I thought  of  this,  and,  while  I 
was  dreaming  there,  a regiment  of  swarthy  Zou- 
aves came  ashore  from  a ship  just  in  from  Africa. 
They  were  the  most  gorgeous  specimens  of  color 
imaginable  ; bronzed  faces ; drooping,  amber- 
tinted  mustaches  faded  in  the  sun  ; little  scarlet 
caps  on  the  very  back  of  their  head,  with  long 
tassels  dangling  below  the  shoulders,  and  jackets, 
baggy  trousers,  cloaks,  and  scarfs  that  blended  the 
mellowest  shades  of  a tropical  sunset.  They 
moved  along  the  quay  and  passed  silently  into 
one  of  the  great  forts  that  are  perched  about  the 
rocky  harbor.  And  what  a harbor  it  is  ! Twenty 
thousand  vessels  enter  and  quit  it  annually ; the 
great  stone  docks  that  line  one  side  of  it  are  like 
a series  of  reception-rooms  with  folding  doors  be- 
tween them  in  the  shape  of  draw-bridges.  When 
the  proposed  additions  are  completed,  for  there 
is  still  a demand  for  sea-lodgings  at  Marseilles, 
this  will  be  the  largest  harbor  in  the  world.  Not- 
witstanding  its  age,  the  only  trace  of  antiquity 
now  in  tolerable  preservation  at  Marseilles  is  the 
church  of  St.  Victor,  where  Pope  Urban  V was 
once  abbot.  I mistook  it  for  a fort,  walked  twice 
around  it  before  I found  an  entrance,  and  then 
supposed  I was  going  into  the  crypt,  hut  arrived, 
after  several  turns,  in  the  nave  that  had  shel- 
tered the  devout  for  nearly  seven  centuries.  At 
the  top  of  that  holy  hill  stands  Notre  Dame  de  la 
Garde.  Various  paths  wind  up  the  rocky  slopes  ; 


MARSEILLES. 


37 


but  at  last  the  ascent  is  so  steep  that  long  flights 
of  steps  land  you  at  the  entrance  of  the  church. 
It  is  a church  within  a fort ; there  is  a moat 
about  it ; you  cross  a small  bridge  that  can  be 
withdrawn,  and  thus  isolate  that  sacred  edifice. 
The  way  is  lined  with  little  booths,  where  rosaries 
and  souvenirs  are  sold.  The  keepers  of  the 
booths  hail  you  as  you  toil  up  the  hill.  With- 
in the  church  there  are  hundreds  of  those  pa- 
thetic, yet  often  ludicrous  votive  pictures  recording 
the  deliverance  from  evil  of  all  sorts  of  sinners. 
In  one  corner  of  the  picture,  the  apparition  of 
“Notre  Dame  de  la  Garde  ” is  sure  to  be  inserted, 
looking  very  much  like  a postage-stamp.  There 
are  miniature  ships  suspended  from  the  ceiling 
like  great  spiders ; ships  that  have  beguiled  the 
tedious  hours  of  sailors  whose  escape  from  watery 
graves  has  filled  their  hearts  with  gratitude  that 
finds  this  touching  and  ingenuous  expression. 
All  day  the  paths  to  the  chapel  of  Our  Lady  are 
thronged  with  pilgrims.  What  an  hour  of  rest 
one  gets  there,  above  the  busy  and  noisy  town, 
looking  off  upon  the  sea  dotted  with  islands  and 
fringed  with  jutting  capes.  The  clouds  seem  to 
lean  down  upon  it,  fair  sails  fade  away  on  the 
horizon,  the  river  trails  a dark  curtain  across  the 
middle  distance,  the  sun  breaks  through  a rift  in 
the  cloud  and  touches  the  dark  waves  with  flame. 
These  little  islands  at  the  entrance  to  the  harbor, 
though  they  are  as  bare  as  chalk,  are  not  with- 


38 


MASHALLAH ! 


out  interest.  It  was  at  the  Chateau  d’lf,  a gloomy 
prison,  that  Mirabeau  was  confined  ; and  to-day, 
if  you  were  to  take  one  of  the  hundred  boats 
that  lie  at  the  quay,  with  a boatman  crying  the 
“ Chateau  d’lf”  as  long  as  you  were  within  hear- 
ing, you  would  be  gravely  shown  into  the  cell  of 
“ Monte  Cristo,”  as  I was,  and  perhaps  it  would 
interest  you  more  than  anything  else  in  the  prem- 
ises. . . . 


Steamer  “ Byzantine,”  off  Marseilles. 

First  Day. — We  are  off  at  last ; about  us  are 
the  hideous  cliffs  of  the  harbor,  that  seem  to  stand 
open  like  jaws  set  thick  with  fangs.  There  is  a 
heavy  swell  in  the  channel  near  the  islands,  and 
we  have  just  shipped  a big  sea,  that  has  washed 
us  all  into  the  cabin  like  so  many  drowned  flies. 
The  great  golden  statue  of  Notre  Dame  de  la 
Garde  flashes  from  the  tower-top  on  Holy  Hill. 
Long  after  we  have  lost  sight  of  Marseilles, 
and  when  the  sea  begins  to  spread  itself  be- 
tween us  and  the  shore,  we  can  still  observe 
the  faint  glow  of  Notre  Dame,  and  the  sight  of 
it  is  a consolation,  for  it  is  our  last  glimpse  of 
France. 

Second  Day. — Nearly  run  down  little  Cor- 
sica this  morning.  Why  will  these  islands  per- 
sist in  getting  in  the  way  of  Oriental  steamers  ? 
Were  obliged  to  turn  out  for  Corsica.  Small  as 
she  is,  we  are  even  smaller,  and  then  she  is  an- 


MARSEILLES. 


39 


chored,  and  we  are  not.  There  is  a kind  of 
etiquette  to  be  observed,  though  we  are  neither 
in  the  heavens  above  nor  the  earth  beneath  ! 
Have  been  hugging  Sardinia  in  the  most  disgrace- 
ful manner  all  day  long,  but  Sardinia  does  not 
seem  to  care  a continental.  Are  very  near  the 
shore  ; deep  valleys  open  to  us,  and  we  see  grand, 
misty  mountains  in  the  distance  ; the  Sardinian 
silhouette  at  sunset  is  as  irregular  as  the  profile 
of  a horned  toad.  Just  nodded  to  Caprera  as  we 
passed  ; one  of  the  officers  pointed  out  a little 
spot  in  the  hills,  and  said  it  was  “ La  Casa  di 
Garibaldi.”  We  looked  intently  at  it  until  wo 
rounded  a point  and  spoke  a fishing-smack  full 
of  Sardines  or  Sardinians — what  would  you  call 
the  inhabitants  of  that  island  ? I mean  those 
that  have  been  pretty  thoroughly  salted. 

Third  Day. — Passed  a bit  of  land  in  the  night 
with  nothing  but  a light-house  to  distinguish  it 
from  the  darkness ; saw  the  blue  cloud  called 
Sicily  floating  on  the  tip-top  of  the  horizon,  just 
as  we  all  went  below  to  our  French  breakfast. 
When  coffee  and  cigarettes  were  over,  the  cloud 
had  vanished.  Spoke  an  Italian  steamer  that  was 
so  excessively  small  the  passengers  on  the  flush 
deck  looked  like  Colossi.  There  is  nothing  to  do 
but  haul  up  to  Malta  at  our  earliest  conveni- 
ence. I don’t  see  why  so  much  has  been  written 
about  the  horrors  of  the  Mediterranean  Sea  ! The 
weather  is  delicious ; the  air  balmy ; the  table 


JilASilALiliAJl ! 


4U 

well  supplied.  The  only  objectionable  feature  of 
the  passage,  so  far,  is  a Turk,  who  coughs  in  the 
pit  of  his  stomach.  When  that  Turk  gets  up  at 
night  to  cough,  you  would  mistake  him  for  a blad- 
der of  dried  peas  being  violently  shaken. 


V. 


MALTA. 

All  day  we  plowed  an  ugly  sea,  slowly  work- 
ing our  way  toward  Malta.  I knew  that  Sicily 
was  but  sixty  miles  away  from  Malta  and  took 
hope,  though  St.  Paul  had  a rough  time  of  it  in 
these  waters  and  came  to  shore  on  the  little  isl- 
and in  anything  but  ship-shape.  Toward  twi- 
light, before  the  sun  was  fairly  down,  we  were  all 
astir  on  board.  Some  one  had  kindly  raised  land 
on  our  larboard  bow,  and  though  it  was  poor  land 
to  look  at,  and  might  have  passed  for  a big  turtle 
asleep  on  the  waters,  we  accepted  it  and  began  to 
congratulate  ourselves  that  we  should  ride  at 
anchor  that  night,  and  take  breakfast  right  side 
up  instead  of  horizontally,  as  was  the  case  only 
a few  hours  before.  Malta  is  certainly  an  un- 
lovely island.  It  is  quite  the  fashion  to  speak 
lightly  of  its  soil,  there  is  so  little  of  it ; and  to 
call  the  water  brackish,  and  to  wonder  why  there 
are  three  little  islands  in  the  group,  when  one  of 


MALTA. 


41 


that  sort  would  be  sufficient  to  satisfy  any  reason- 
able soul.  The  Maltese  on  board  are  indignant, 
and  point  out  its  celebrated  resorts  and  speak 
with  enthusiasm  of  its  charming  climate.  It  lies 
half  way  between  Italy  and  Africa.  It  is  better 
than  either  in  many  respects,  they  who  dwell  on 
this  lonely  rock  think,  which  means,  in  reality, 
that  it  is  neither  the  one  thing  nor  the  other.  As 
we  draw  in  nearer  the  shore,  a fellow  passenger, 
who  has  made  Malta  his  home  for  many  years, 
grows  jubilant,  and  seizes  me  by  the  arm  to  tell  me 
the  old  story  of  St.  Paul’s  wreck.  “ There  is  the 
very  spot,”  says  he,  “and  many  a picnic  have  I 
enjoyed  in  the  cove  under  the  hill.  ” Sure  enough, 
there  it  all  was,  “a  certain  creek  with  a shore,” 
and  on  the  cliff  above  the  shore  a colossal  statue 
of  the  saint,  just  distinguishable  in  the  twilight — 
a great  white  figure  like  a ghost,  brooding  over 
the  fretful  sea.  It  was  undoubtedly  a favorable 
season  for  refreshing  one’s  memory  of  that  nota- 
ble shipwreck,  and  in  half  an  hour  no  fewer  than 
five  versions  of  the  wreck  were  given  in  as  many 
languages  by  men  who  spoke  as  if  they  had  been 
eye-witnesses  of  the  scene.  We  recalled  how  St. 
Paul  was  shipped  to  Italy,  how  he  touched  at 
Sidon,  and  how  “Julius  courteously  entreated 
Paul,  and  gave  him  liberty  to  go  with  his  friends 
and  refresh  himself.”  How,  afterward,  they 
sailed  under  Cyprus,  and  over  the  Sea  of  Cilicia 
and  Pamphylia,  and  ca;ne  to  Lysia.  How  they 


42 


MASHALLAH! 


cruised  by  Cnidus  and  Crete,  and  the  Fair  Havens, 
and  then  the  prophetic  lips  foretold  the  danger 
that  lay  in  store.  But  the  old  salts  of  those  days 
had  as  little  confidence  in  landsmen  as  in  this 
hour,  and  “ when  the  south  wind  blew  softly” 
they  loosened  sail  and  bore  down  under  the  shores 
of  Crete.  It  was  a bad  move,  for  Euroclydon,  a 
tempestuous  wind,  caught  them,  and  they  could 
not  bear  up  against  it.  For  many  days  neither 
sun  nor  stars  appeared,  and  the  ship  was  driven 
up  and  down  in  the  raging  sea.  They  lightened 
the  storm-bound  bark,  they  ungirded  her,  they 
“ strake  sail  ” ; with  their  own  hands  they  threw 
out  the  tackling  of  the  ship,  and  then  yielded  to 
their  fate.  Again  the  saint  was  moved  to  prophe- 
cy, and  he  had  them  this  time.  “ You  should 
have  stayed  at  Crete,”  said  he  ; “yet  fear  not,  for 
no  man  among  you  shall  be  lost,  only  but  the 
ship.  ” They  came  to  a land  which  they  knew  not, 
after  fourteen  days  of  unutterable  misery.  It 
was  midnight,  and  very  cold.  They  sounded,  and 
found  that  it  was  twenty  fathoms ; again  they 
sounded,  and  found  it  was  fifteen  fathoms,  and 
then  they  threw  four  anchors  out  of  the  stern, 
and  “wished  for  day.”  The  saint  was,  after  all, 
the  best  seaman  of  the  lot,  for  without  him  that 
company  could  not  have  got  safely  to  shore.  In 
the  morning  they  took  up  their  anchors,  made 
sail  and  drove  their  bow  right  into  the  sandy  beach, 
and  the  ship  went  to  pieces,  and  every  one  of  the 


MALTA. 


43 


two  hundred  three  score  and  sixteen  souls  set  foot 
on  Malta  without  stopping  to  consider  the  beauty 
or  the  barrenness  of  the  island  at  the  moment. 
My  Maltese  friend  assures  me  that  the  snakes  in 
Malta,  and  there  are  plenty  of  them,  are  all  per- 
fectly harmless,  and  that  this  has  been  the  case 
ever  since  St.  Paul  shook  the  viper  from  his  hand 
into  the  fire,  on  the  bank  yonder,  the  morning 
after  the  wreck.  When  I had  come  to  the  end 
of  my  sojourn  in  Malta,  and  was  thinking  of  the 
chief  point  of  interest  on  the  sixty  monotonous 
miles  of  coast,  my  eye  chanced  to  fall  upon  this 
paragraph,  in  a small  history  of  the  island  that 
lay  open  before  me  : 

“St.  Paul’s  Bay  is  now  a watering-place,  where 
many  of  the  inhabitants  pass  the  summer  months.” 

Half  an  hour’s  ride  from  St.  Paul’s  watering- 
place  is  the  grotto  of  Calypso.  Could  Homer 
have  ever  seen  it,  or  was  he  born  blind  that  he 
sang  of  the  spot  in  a strain  that  ought  to  increase 
emigration  to  Malta  ? It  is  now  celebrated  for 
the  enormous  quantities  of  sandwiches  and  soda- 
water  consumed  on  the  premises,  and  there  is  not 
a line  of  Homer  discernible  as  far  as  eye  can  see. 
It  is  after  sunset  when  we  steam  into  the  harbor 
of  Valetta  and  let  go  our  anchor.  Half  an  hour 
before,  we  rolled  up  under  the  low  cliffs  of  the 
island,  finding  it  difficult  to  focus  any  given  object, 
but  now  we  lie  as  still  as  a picture  in  the  deep, 


44 


MASHALLAH ! 


quiet  waters,  only  a stone’s  throw  from  shore. 
All  about  us  tower  the  hills  that  are  literally 
clothed  with  fortifications.  The  city  stands  on 
end,  with  one  house  beginning  where  another 
leaves  off,  so  that  you  can  see  nothing  but  win- 
dows and  roofs  stretching  from  the  water’s  edge 
to  the  very  sky.  There  are  hanging  gardens,  tier 
upon  tier,  that  carefully  hide  all  traces  of  verdure, 
and  you  don’t  know  they  are  green  and  lovely 
gardens  until  you  wander  about  the  town,  climb- 
ing hither  and  thither,  and  suddenly  find  your- 
self in  one  of  them.  The  house  windows  are 
mostly  pushed  out  over  the  narrow  streets,  like 
small  balconies  enclosed  in  glass,  and  dark  blinds 
give  them  a tropical  appearance  that  reminds  us 
that  we  are  not  far  from  the  African  coast. 

The  harbor,  a mile  and  a half  long,  and  nearly 
land-locked,  is  alive  with  small  Maltese  boats,  that 
curl  over  at  the  stem  and  stern  as  if  the  boat- 
builder  had  taken  the  superfluous  ends  of  the 
little  craft  and  made  a “ beau-catcher  ” for  orna- 
ment. Great  ships  swing  near  us  at  anchor. 
There  are  singers  floating  to  and  fro,  and  hailing 
us  between  the  stanzas  with  an  invitation  to  shore. 
Even  the  voices  from  the  quays  are  distinctly 
audible,  and,  but  for  the  gibberish,  the  Maltese 
dialect,  which  seems  to  be  a mixture  of  Arabic 
and  Italian,  we  might  pass  an  hour  in  trying  to 
catch  a phrase,  and  learn  the  gossip  of  Malta.  A 
thousand  lights  twinkle  on  the  hills.  We  seem  to 


MALTA. 


45 


be  in  the  midst  of  a vast  amphitheatre  on  a festa 
night,  and  this  is  entertainment  enough  for  the 
present.  We  learn  that  the  opera-house  is  burned, 
that  the  cafes  are  dull,  that  there  is  nothing  else 
worth  mentioning  in  the  shape  of  amusements 
save  an  Italian  melodrama,  so  we  stop  on  board 
for  the  night — I mean  those  of  us  who  are  only 
touching  at  Malta  on  our  way  to  Alexandria. 
The  Maltese  have  deserted  us.  There  was  infinite 
trouble  in  getting  ashore,  though  the  Custom- 
house officers  never  molest  you  at  this  port.  The 
boatmen  positively  fought  for  custom ; even  the 
smallest  passenger  is  a godsend  to  these  poor  fel- 
lows, who  seem  to  be  famishing,  and  no  wonder. 
Malta,  for  its  size,  contains  a denser  population 
than  any  other  port  of  the  habitable  globe.  This 
rocky  oasis  in  the  sea  has  been  the  scene  of  re- 
peated conflicts  from  the  days  of  the  Phoenicians 
down  to  the  beginning  of  this  century,  when  it 
passed  quietly  into  the  hands  of  the  British,  and 
has  rejoiced  in  shapely  officers  with  short  red 
coats  and  sturdy  Highlanders  with  bare  legs  ever 
since.  But  only  while  Malta  was  the  island  king- 
dom of  the  Knights  of  St.  John  has  romance 
succeeded  in  throwing  a spell  over  it.  The 
Greeks,  Romans,  Goths,  Arabs,  and  their  succes- 
sors seemed  eager  to  get  possession  of  the  island, 
that  they  might  thus  prevent  their  neighbors 
from  gaining  a foothold  there.  They  have  all,  or 
nearly  all,  left  traces  of  their  seed  in  this  stony 


46 


MASHALLAH 1 


soil.  The  costumes  of  a carnival  are  daily  aired 
in  the  high  gardens  of  Valetta,  and  the  tongues 
of  Babel  confuse  the  ear  in  the  steep  streets  of 
the  city.  While  the  boatmen  are  singing  in  the 
starlight,  I fumble  through  the  leaves  of  my 
pocket-copy  of  “ The  Historical  Guide  to  Malta,” 
printed  on  the  premises,  and  there  get  a glimpse 
of  the  songs  of  the  people,  and  find  them  ex- 
tremely poor.  The  melody  is  bad  enough,  but  the 
poetry  is  worse.  Here  is  a specimen  of  their  sen- 
timent, a song  at  parting  : 

Beloved,  I am  about  to  leave  you, 

I sigh  that  I take  you  not  with  me ; 

May  God  give  you  new  resignation, 

And  preserve  you  secure  in  my  love. 

And  preserve  you  secure  in  my  love, 

That  you  ever  remember  me  ; 

Remember  I always  have  loved  you, 

Since  the  time  I was  hut  an  infant. 

Since  the  time  I was  hut  an  infant, 

My  heart  has  always  been  drawn  to  you; 

And  I can  walk  in  no  other  light 
But  the  light  of  your  beautiful  eyes. 

In  the  light  of  your  beautiful  eyes 
I have  always  directed  my  steps. 
******* 

And  so  on  for  several  stanzas,  in  each  of  which 
the  last  line  of  the  preceding  stanza  is  repeated 
and  added  to.  The  following  naive  verses  are 


MALTA. 


47 


thought  to  be  a tolerable  specimen  of  the  songs 
popular  among  the  common  people  : 

Would  you  know  what  a maiden  does 
From  morning  until  evening? 

She  adorns  her  head  with  curls, 

And  seats  herself  in  the  balcony. 

She  seats  herself  in  the  balcony, 

And  sets  about  making  love ; 

When  she  sees  her  mother  coming, 

She  begins  hemming  her  handkerchief. 

The  young  man  walks  up  and  down, 

To  see  if  the  old  woman  is  there. 

He  traverses  the  street  from  one  end  to  the  other. 
He  meets  with  an  old  grandmother, 

And  says,  “Woman,  will  you  help  me? 

I care  nothing  about  money, 

So  as  that  you  are  able  to  serve  me.” 

In  the  song,  the  marriage  is  proposed  but  comes 
to  naught,  for  the  young  woman  in  the  balcony  is 
evidently  a flirt.  Fancy  these  songs  droned  mono- 
tonously to  the  accompaniment  of  the  bagpipes 
and  tambourine. 

At  daybreak  the  following  morning  we  were 
surrounded  by  barges  full  of  goods  to  be  shipped, 
and  barges  empty,  awaiting  such  freight  as  we 
had  brought  to  Malta  ; the  engines  were  at  work 
hoisting  out  bales  and  boxes,  and,  with  this  din 
of  commerce  in  my  ears,  I hastened  on  shore  to 
see  the  town. 


48 


MASHALLAH ! 


It  is  pretty  enough  as  it  spreads  over  the  hills  ; 
you  cross  a drawbridge  and  go  under  an  arch  in  the 
natural  rock,  near  the  water,  and  thus  you  enter 
Valetta.  The  streets  are  picturesque ; some  of 
them  are  like  long  flights  of  stairs,  with  the  houses 
on  each  side  of  them  like  larger  steps,  one  above 
another.  Cascades  of  people  are  continually  tum- 
bling down  these  stairs,  or  sitting  in  eddies  on  the 
way,  knitting,  chatting,  smoking.  Statues  of 
saints  are  at  the  street  comers,  with  lamps  burning 
before  them.  Your  guide  tells  you  a thousand 
things  of  the  town  and  the  people  that  interest  you 
very  little.  One  fact  is  evident — there  are  more 
hands  eager  for  work,  more  mouths  hungry  for  food 
than  the  market  is  able  to  satisfy.  The  guide 
thinks  I must  he  deeply  interested  in  the  Gover- 
nor’s palace,  and  therefore  turns  me  over  to  the 
pompous  butler,  who  drawls  out  his  tiresome  de- 
scriptive test  as  we  two  wander  through  the  rather 
fine  apartments.  We  see  coats  of  mail  worn  by 
the  Knights  of  Malta  in  the  glorious  days  of  that 
Order,  and  cross-bows,  javelins,  battle-axes,  and 
the  usual  curios  of  an  armory.  There  is  a can- 
non here  five  feet  long,  three  inch  caliber,  made 
of  tarred  rope  bound  round  a thin  lining  of  cop- 
per, and  covered  on  the  outside  with  a coating  of 
plaster  painted  black.  It  was  captured  from  the 
Turks  during  one  of  their  attacks  on  the  city  of 
Rhodes.  Some  of  the  old  auberges  of  the 
Knights  are  still  standing.  These  were  the  pal- 


MALTA. 


49 


aces  or  inns  for  each  nationality,  where  the  mem- 
bers, whether  knights,  serving  brothers,  professors, 
or  novices,  used  to  live.  Those  that  have  not  given 
place  to  the  more  modern  buildings  are  now  used 
for  Government  offices  of  one  sort  or  another. 
Iiow  soon  we  exhausted  the  town  ! There  is 
really  nothing  special  to  be  seen  but  the  great 
church  of  St.  John. 

It  was  built  about  1576  by  Grand  Master  La 
Cassiere,  and  was  enriched  by  his  successors.  The 
pavement  is  composed  of  sepulchral  slabs  worked 
in  a mosaic  of  jasper,  agate,  and  other  precious 
stones.  Many  a knight  sleeps  under  these  splen- 
did floors,  with  a panegyric  flattering  him  in 
death.  Every  nation  had,  and  has  still,  its  sepa- 
rate chapel,  running  parallel  with  the  nave,  and 
here  the  Grand  Masters  are  inurned  in  sumptuous 
state.  The  Portuguese  knights,  the  Spanish, 
Austrian,  Italian,  French,  Bavarian,  and  English 
have  each  decorated  their  chapels  and  their  altars 
after  their  own  hearts.  In  the  English  chapel  is 
one  old  statue  of  wood,  representing  St.  John. 
It  was  the  custom  of  the  Knights  to  assemble 
before  this  statue  and  implore  victory  on  the  eve 
of  their  national  engagements.  In  the  crypt  lie 
the  remains  of  L’Isle  Adam,  first  commander 
of  the  Order  in  Malta,  together  with  those  of  many 
others  more  or  less  famous.  But  for  the  sacrifice  of 
the  mass  at  the  high  altar,  the  worshipers,  the  faint 
odor  of  incense  that  pervaded  the  great  church,  I 
4 


50 


MASHALLAH ! 


fear  the  splendid  mockery  of  the  monumental 
marble  would  have  chilled  me ; the  history  of 
three  centuries  of  glory  and  greatness  is  all  that 
is  left  in  the  knightly  island ; a history,  and 
nothing  more.  From  the  high  gardens  over  the 
sea  I looked  down  upon  the  waves  that  stretched 
between  me  and  the  horizon,  and  thought  of  the 
distant  shore  I was  seeking,  a shore  whereon  so 
brief  a history  as  this  of  the  Knights  of  Malta 
would  seem  like  writing  in  the  sand.  I grew  im- 
patient at  our  delay,  and  found  the  venders  of 
fretted  silver  a burden,  and  the  songs  of  the  boat- 
boys  a bore.  Moreover,  what  if  the  climate 
should  veer,  as  it  does  sometimes  ? The  winter 
is  penetrating,  says  my  history,  and  the  summer 
is  one  long  sirocco.  Do  you  know  what  that  is  ? 
What  says  the  historian  ? “ Strangers  in  Malta 
are  affected,  during  the  prevalence  of  the  sirocco, 
with  great  lassitude  and  debility,  which  indis- 
poses their  system,  and  renders  it  liable  to  suffer 
from  dyspepsia.  . . . Anything  painted  when  this 
wind  blows  will  never  set  well  ; glue  loses  much 
of  its  adhesive  property  ; bright  metals  become 
tarnished  ; and,  from  the  dampness  of  the  atmos- 
phere, the  pavement  of  the  street  is  sometimes 
quite  wet.”  Good  heavens  ! Let  us  quit  Malta 
before  our  “glue  loses  its  adhesive  property,”  or 
we  go  to  pieces. 


ALEXANDRIA. 


51 


VI. 

ALEXANDRIA. 

The  sea  wind  fell  toward  daybreak  and  the  sea 
followed  shortly  after.  A soft  gale  came  out  of 
the  east  with  the  sun  and  blew  off  shore.  What 
a very  soft  gale  it  was  ! warm  and  dry,  bearing 
the  faintest  possible  odor  of  musk  along  with  it, 
and  stealing,  apparently,  from  the  heart  of  a great 
yellow  cloud  that  was  slowly  rising  under  the  sun. 
I wondered  if  it  was  the  steam  of  aloes,  the  sort 
of  thing  you  read  of,  but  seldom  witness  ; it 
was  not  the  smoke  of  a burnt-offering,  nor  any 
sun-painted  cloud,  but  only  desert  dust  swept  up 
and  wafted  away  on  the  fresh  breeze  of  the  morn- 
ing. The  blue  waves  turned  pale,  and  broke  into 
long  lines  of  flashing  foam  as  they  crept  to  shore  ; 
beyond  the  foam  rose  a white  city,  like  a reef  built 
out  of  the  sea  ; a few  palms  leaned  over  its  shin- 
ing walls,  a few  domes  hung  like  great  ostrich 
eggs  under  those  leaning  palms  ; a few  slender 
minarets,  tall  tapers  with  crescents  flaming  at 
their  tips,  towered  here  and  there,  the  loftiest  ob- 
jects in  all  that  dazzling  horizon.  A strange  sail 
came  leaping  over  the  waves  to  give  us  welcome  ; 
I heard  unfamiliar  voices,  and  received  a confused 
impression  of  color,  orange  and  scarlet  and  bronze, 
draped  and  turbaned  somebodies  doing  something 


52 


MASHALLAH ! 


for  our  benefit  as  we  steamed  on  toward  the  splen- 
did port. 

Islands  with  palaces,  blinded  to  the  eaves  and 
filled  with  invisible  slaves,  a lighthouse,  and  a 
harbor  crowded  with  shipping — all  these  sprang 
suddenly  before  us  out  of  the  blank  sea,  too  sud- 
denly for  me  to  fully  comprehend  them.  We 
were  shortly  surrounded  by  a great  multitude  of 
boatmen.  They  fastened  to  our  ship  like  leeches, 
and  scaled  our  bulwarks.  They  swarmed  on  us, 
those  plagues  of  Egypt,  men  and  boys  of  every 
sort  save  only  the  right  sort.  We  were  boarded 
and  taken  by  storm.  Your  sea  pirates  do  this 
sort  of  thing  and  are  hanged  for  it,  but  in  Alex- 
andria the  rope’s  end  scatters  them  for  a moment 
only,  and  they  return  afresh.  I retreated  into 
the  cabin,  where  they  cornered  me,  prostrate 
and  speechless,  under  the  hail  of  their  deep,  de- 
licious lingo.  Click  ! click ! down  went  the 
anchor  into  the  soft  beds  of  Egyptian  mud,  and 
at  last  we  came  to  a dead  halt  in  the  classical 
waters  of  Proteus.  I was  in  the  cabin  in  mine 
extremity.  Most  of  the  pirates  spoke  a line  of 
English,  and  each  claimed  me  as  his  own.  I 
was  seized  bodily  and  torn  from  the  arms  of  an 
agile  Greek  to  be  folded  in  the  embraces  of  a 
dusky  Arab.  They  might  have  parted  my  gar- 
ments among  them ; they  nearly  did.  They 
might  have  drawn  and  quartered  me  and  taken 
me  on  shore  in  sections,  but  I cried  aloud  in  that 


ALEXANDRIA. 


53 


last  hour,  “ Save  me,  Hubert,  save  me  ! ” and  the 
saving  Hubert  came  to  the  front.  I fell  upon  his 
neck,  bag  and  baggage,  and  put  all  my  trust  in 
him.  He  was  not  a Greek,  and  that  was  some- 
thing in  his  favor ; he  was  an  Italian,  and  that 
was  considerably  more,  for  I had  had  dealings 
with  his  people,  and  knew  their  ways.  “ Don’t 
believe  him  ! ” said  a rival.  “ He  lies  ! ” added  a 
second.  “ He  will  cheat  you  ! ” 

“We  all  cheat,”  chimed  the  chorus  of  forty 
thieves.  Every  mouth  was  set  against  him,  and 
my  heart  sank.  Then  Hubert  spoke  in  the 
honeyed  tongue  of  his  country,  “ Believe  no  one, 
hut  follow  me  ! ” I followed  him  in  the  wildest 
unbelief,  and  was  carried  to  shore  under  the  very 
shadow  of  his  protecting  arm.  He  lashed  the 
fellows  that  beset  our  path  to  right  and  left ; 
abused  the  boatman  ; scoffed  at  the  officials  who 
received  us  at  the  quay  ; took  possession  of  a car- 
riage and  span,  and  piloted  me  to  a French  inn, 
apart  from  the  Frank  quarter,  where  all  the 
squalid  splendor  of  the  Ottoman  East  was  to  be 
enjoyed  at  the  lowest  possible  figure.  Wine  and 
figs  restored  me  ; my  hostess,  with  her  hair  down 
and  her  feet  in  yellow  slippers,  talked  of  Paris 
with  a sigh  that  was  tinctured  with  absinthe  and 
cigarettes.  I heard  the  songs  of  the  sellers  of 
sweetmeats  under  my  window ; I saw  all  the 
pageant  of  the  streets,  and  scented  the  holy  and 
unholy  smells  that  continually  freight  the  air. 


54 


MASHALLAH ! 


It  was  passing  strange,  and,  unable  to  resist  the 
charm  of  it,  I went  forth  to  glut  my  senses.  Hu- 
bert clung  to  me  like  a brother,  like  a big  brother 
who  bullies  you  fraternally,  and  turns  his  devotion 
to  profit. 

“ What  will  you  see  ?”  asked  Hubert. 

“ See  ? I will  see  the  four  thousand  palaces  and 
the  like  number  of  baths  ; superb  Serapis  on  its 
pyramid  of  a hundred  steps ; the  Gymnasium, 
the  Hippodrome,  and  Cleopatra’s  Hall  of  Revels  ; 
afterward  take  mo  to  the  pinnacle  of  the  Panium, 
that  I may  view  the  city  of  five  hundred  thousand 
souls,  and  its  fifteen  miles  of  wall,  with  Necropo- 
lis by  the  sea  below  it,  and  Pharos  in  the  waves 
beyond  ! Show  me  Hypatia’s  home  ! ” 

Hubert  said  nothing,  but  passed  the  word  to 
the  black  driver  in  a scarlet  fez  with  a blue  tassel, 
and  we  rocked  from  side  to  side  through  narrow, 
crooked  streets,  as  unsuitable  for  the  purposes  of 
commerce  as  plowed  soil  frozen  hard. 

I was  dragged  from  point  to  point  through  all 
the  city ; then  out  of  it  into  the  hills  of  sand 
where  the  brown-leaved  date  palms  stood  stiff- 
ly against  the  wind ; the  cactus  bristled  by  the 
roadside  ; small  caravans  of  camels,  with  Nubian 
drivers,  appeared  and  disappeared  among  the  des- 
ert gullies ; diminutive  donkeys,  burdened  with 
riders  who  were,  for  the  most  part,  ridiculously 
out  of  proportion,  ambled  over  the  beaten  ways, 
urged  on  by  barelegged  boys  with  cries  and  cudg- 


ALEXANDRIA. 


55 


els ; pilgrims,  swathed  in  many  - colored  gar- 
ments ; carriages  filled  with  Franks,  more  camels, 
other  donkeys  and  Frank -laden  carriages — this 
was  the  breathing  panorama  of  the  day.  In  all 
the  city  that  has  been  glorious  we  found  no  re- 
maining traces  of  its  glory.  Of  the  twelve  thou- 
sand gardens  that  once  delighted  its  luxurious 
people,  a single  substitute  offers  its  trim  lawns  to 
the  health-seeking  Frank,  with  a caution  to  pluck 
nothing  within  the  railings,  and  to  keep  off  the 
grass  ! On  the  crown  of  a low  hill  stands  the  soli- 
tary column  that  perpetuates  the  fame  of  Pom- 
pey,  though  it  was  erected  in  honor  of  Diocletian. 
In  the  sand  by  the  seashore  the  obelisk  that  marks 
the  site  of  the  Caesari  am  towers  alone,  for  its  com- 
panion, long  since  fallen  and  hidden  away  under 
sand  drifts,  buried  by  the  kindly  winds,  has  been 
dragged  through  the  vext  seas  to  England.  It  is 
the  so-called  Needle  of  Cleopatra  ; * near  it  lay  the 
dust  of  the  Ptolemies  and  of  Alexander.  The 
meanest  quarter  of  his  city  has  crept  down  upon 
his  tomb  and  obliterated  it.  The  garden  of  Mo- 
harram  Bey  was  to  a certain  extent  a bore ; the 
thick  shade  of  the  banyan,  where  I sought  to  col- 
lect my  shattered  senses,  gave  providential  shelter 
to  Egyptian  florists,  who  stole  upon  me  in  the 
fragrant  silence  and  assaulted  me  with  button- 

* Since  this  was  written  it  has  been  transported  to 
New  York. 


56 


MASHALLAH  ! 


hole  bouquets.  Was  I not  Americano,  and  their 
legitimate  prey  ? 

Hubert  was  in  league  with  them  ; Hubert  be- 
guiled me  into  one  snare  or  another  every  hour, 
and  in  each  case  it  was  quite  impossible  to  extri- 
cate myself  without  his  aid.  Hubert  kept  one 
hand  on  his  heart,  the  picture  of  fidelity,  and  the 
other  in  my  pocket.  This  is  one  of  the  customs 
of  the  East  not  set  forth  in  the  “ Arabian 
Nights.”  We  drove  by  the  side  of  still  canals 
where  barges  swung  at  anchor  or  drifted  lazily 
with  sails  half-filled.  We  saw  all  the  fashions  of 
the  Empire  displayed  along  the  shore.  Alexan- 
dria turned  out  to  take  the  sun  at  his  setting,  to 
listen  to  the  strains  of  music  under  the  palms,  to 
nod  sleepily  to  one’s  friends  from  the  luxurious 
cushions  heaped  in  the  phaetons  brought  over  sea 
from  England.  Then  we  hastened  hack  to  town 
and  haggled  with  the  man  in  the  fez,  Hubert 
and  I,  and  got  rid  of  his  establishment,  poor  as 
it  was,  and  decrepit  and  threadbare,  with  infi- 
nite pains.  I was  covered  with  humiliation,  and 
sought  to  drown  my  disappointment  in  a tol- 
erable brand  of  French  claret.  My  dream  of 
the  Orient — how  well  that  sounds — was  dreamed 
out.  This  was  not  the  Orient  I longed  for  all  my 
days  and  nights — a perfumed  paradise,  founded 
on  the  bewitching  pages  of  Eothen  and  the  How- 
adji.  And  yet  everything  that  I saw — and  I was 
continually  seeing  something — every  object  was 


ALEXANDRIA. 


57 


exactly  as  I expected  it  to  be,  and  I lost  all  hope 
of  receiving  a sensation. 

Twenty  minutes  on  shore  made  this  fact  clear 
to  me.  I lounged  into  a cafe  toward  bedtime,  re- 
solving to  be  as  comfortable  as  most  foreigners  are 
who  are  cast  alone  among  strangers,  and  heard 
the  perambulating  organs  that  grind  upon  the 
heels  of  civilization,  and  tease  the  ear  of  him  who 
listens  for  the  angelic  harmony  of  silence,  even 
though  he  fly  to  the  desert  in  the  vain  search  for 
it.  The  organ  droned  out  an  Egyptian  air  from 
“Aida”  in  the  neighboring  cafe — every  third 
house  is  the  haunt  of  coffee-bibbers — close  at 
hand  reed  flutes  were  being  blown  by  Egyptian 
lips  and  fingered  skillfully  by  untrained  Egyptian 
fingers,  and  I must  confess  that,  clever  as  Verdi’s 
imitation  is,  it  is  not  so  pleasing  as  the  rustic, 
fantastic,  fanatical  melodies  that  these  dark  min- 
strels charm  out  of  their  reeds.  The  first  sweet 
sleep  of  night  was  forcibly  broken  by  a series  of  cat- 
calls that  filled  me  with  astonishment  and  alarm. 
I rose  from  dreams  in  a frame  of  mind  by  no  means 
worthy  to  be  classed  with  those  of  the  distin- 
guished Indian  lover.  Some  one  in  the  shadow 
under  my  casement  was  hooting  at  intervals  ; per- 
haps he  learned  his  cry  from  an  Eastern  night- 
bird  unclassified  in  natural  history ; possibly  it 
was  an  invention  of  his  own.  I know  from  ex- 
perience and  close  study  that  his  voice  sprang  out 
of  the  silence  into  a high  and  prolonged  falsetto, 


58 


MASHALLAH ! 


and,  having  nearly  exhausted  itself  on  the  chief 
note,  it  concluded  with  a brief  flourish  that 
seemed  to  vary  from  time  to  time,  and  was  no 
doubt  indicative  of  the  mood  of  the  screamer. 
His  breath  passed  from  him  with  such  emphasis 
that  for  a moment  the  silence  was  intensified,  and 
then  he  seemed  to  recover  with  an  audible  gulp 
and  to  set  at  once  to  the  accumulation  of  strength 
for  the  second  cry  which  was  sure  to  follow  short- 
ly. The  serenader  under  my  window  usually 
first  sounded  his  clarion  note  as  if  he  were  merely 
announcing  his  presence. 

A few  dogs  barked  in  the  distance.  Some 
one  moved  stealthily  by  on  the  other  side  of  the 
street,  and  then  all  was  still  again.  Once  more 
the  cry  ascended  from  the  pavement,  but  this 
time  there  was  a touch  of  impatience  in  it,  and 
the  concluding  flourish  was  sharpened  to  a point. 
Anon  the  cry  was  repeated  afar  off ; it  was  not 
unlike  an  echo,  yet  some  kind  of  intelligence 
seemed  to  be  conveyed  over  the  town  in  the  pecu- 
liar emphasis  which  -was  given  it.  Now  my  par- 
ticular nightingale  flew  into  the  air  with  a trium- 
phant peal ; echo  at  once  responded,  and  seemed 
to  be  drawing  nearer  every  moment.  At  last 
they  met,  these  two  clamorous  birds  of  night,  and, 
as  they  passed  under  the  faint  ray  of  a street-lamp 
that  swumg  from  a shed  over  the  way,  I saw  that 
they  wore  the  impressive  livery  of  the  gendarmes 
of  the  East.  The  mystery  was  solved  ; they  were 


ALEXANDRIA. 


59 


the  night  police,  and,  as  the  whole  race  is  given  to 
much  sleeping,  it  becomes  necessary  for  these 
watchful  ministers  of  the  public  peace  to  keep 
one  another  and  themselves  awake  by  shrieking 
over  the  roofs  from  time  to  time.  I grew  famil- 
iar with  that  cry  in  all  its  infinite  variations.  I 
have  heard  my  neighbor  get  wrathful  because  his 
challenge  was  unanswered,  and  he  knew  that  the 
other  fellow  was  sound  asleep.  I have  listened  to 
the  more  distant  call  twice  or  thrice  repeated  in 
various  degrees  of  indignation,  yet  all  the  while 
my  watchman  reposed  peacefully.  When  he 
awoke,  which  he  did  ultimately — for  who  shall  be 
suffered  to  dream  out  his  dream  in  the  teeth  of 
these  thief-frighteners  ? — he  shook  off  his  drowsi- 
ness, and  responded  with  such  vigor  that  there 
was  conscious  guilt  betrayed  in  the  very  tone  of 
his  voice.  I began  with  hating  and  scorning,  but 
I ended  by  loving  these  gentle  caterwaulers. 

We  were  all  of  us  restless.  Often  I should 
have  enjoyed  shrieking  myself,  but  I was  not  in 
voice ; they  entertained  me,  and  their  changeful 
moods  were  a perpetual  study.  Sometimes  three 
or  four  of  them  lifted  up  their  voices  in  con- 
cert, and  the  town  seemed  alive  with  them ; 
sometimes  a whole  hour  would  pass  in  absolute 
silence,  and  I knew  that  they  were  all  asleep,  and 
was  glad  for  their  sakes,  and  for  the  sakes  of  all 
parties  concerned,  that  it  was  as  it  was.  Again  and 
again  has  the  voice  of  my  watcher  sought  to  make 


GO 


MASHALLAII ! 


itself  audible  when  the  effort  was  only  half  suc- 
cessful, for  the  cry  was  swallowed  up  in  a sigh, 
and  no  one  heard  it  but  myself — and  I wasn’t 
going  to  tell.  I have  known  him  to  utilize  a 
yawn  and  try  to  pass  it  for  the  genuine  article, 
but  he  usually  failed  in  this  effort.  Sometimes 
he  dreamed,  and  made  a hideous  attempt  to  arouse 
his  comrade  in  the  next  block.  It  was  like  the 
utterances  of  those  who  talk  in  their  sleep,  the 
unintelligible  mouthings  of  an  idiot,  or  the  vague 
and  rapid  mutterings  of  one  insane.  That  was 
the  sort  of  thing  that  shook  the  nerves  of  Lady 
Macbeth,  and  I was  happier  when  the  old  fellow 
under  the  window  came  suddenly  to  the  surface 
with  a startled  but  defiant  crow  that  seemed  the 
herald  of  the  new-born  day.  A second  day’s 
wanderings  among  the  streets  of  Alexandria  de- 
veloped no  new  impressions. 

The  pictures  of  Oriental  life  familiar  to  my 
eyes  from  childhood  were  realized  ; the  indolent 
sippers  of  coffee  and  sherbet,  the  indefatigable 
smokers  of  the  nargileli  and  the  chibouk,  the 
sellers  of  fx-uit  and  candy  who  build  pyramids  of 
their  wares,  and  sit  in  the  shade  of  a palm  branch 
inviting  custom  with  songs  descriptive  of  the  joys 
of  fruit-eating  and  sugar-sucking,  the  pestilential 
donkey-boys,  who  follow  the  foreigners  like  sum- 
mer flies,  the  camels  stalking  through  the  streets 
or  kneeling  in  front  of  the  bazars  to  be  laden  or 
unladen — all  these  sights  were  repeated  again  and 


ALEXANDRIA. 


61 


again.  Clumsily  clad  women  waddled  in  the 
middle  of  the  street,  and  were  shrieked  at  by 
drivers  who  claimed  the  right  of  way ; these 
women  always  waddle  and  look  over  the  ridges  of 
their  black  veils  with  soft,  expressionless  eyes 
rimmed  round  with  dark  lines  of  kohl.  Often  I 
stopped  in  the  shelter  of  a palm  grove — there  are 
few  enough  in  Alexandria,  but  they  are  most  in- 
viting— and  took  note  of  the  trifling  events  that 
made  up  the  life  of  the  people.  A boy’s  quarrel, 
a dog  fight,  a dispute  over  a bargain,  a wandering 
minstrel  singing  or  chanting  to  the  monotonous 
accompaniment  of  the  two-stringed  lute — each 
and  all  of  these  were  of  sufficient  moment  to  at- 
tract an  audience.  Egyptian,  Nubian,  Turk, 
Maltese,  Algerine,  Greek,  Darweesh,  Frank,  and 
Friar,  they  gather  from  all  quarters  and  loiter  in 
the  sun  until  even  this  slight  episode  has  come  to 
an  end,  and  there  is  nothing  left  them  but  coffee 
and  tobacco.  My  attention  was  attracted  at  last, 
when  even  a palm  shadow  grew  oppressive,  and 
my  lips  refused  sherbet ; I was  delighted  to  dis- 
cover a commotion  at  the  lower  end  of  the  street, 
a commotion  that  fairly  blocked  the  way,  and 
was  slowly  creeping  up  toward  the  palm  garden 
where  I stood. 

There  was  wailing  in  the  air,  and  the  sharp, 
shrill  screams  of  women  rose  at  intervals  ; a pro- 
cession of  men,  bearing  over  their  heads  a rude 
bier,  pushed  its  way  out  of  the  throng  and  quick- 


G2 


MASHALLAH ! 


ened  its  pace  as  it  drew  near  ; the  bier,  having  a 
tall  head-board,  was  entirely  covered  with  a shawl, 
and  from  the  top  of  the  head-board  dangled  cer- 
tain head  ornaments  worn  by  Eastern  women,  and 
including  a couple  of  long,  false  braids  of  silk 
that  are  fastened  in  the  hair.  The  fair  Ophelia 
was  going  to  her  grave  preceded  by  a band  of 
blind  old  men  who  wagged  their  heads  in  the  sun 
and  cried  repeatedly,  “ There  is  no  god  but  God, 
and  Mohammed  is  his  Prophet.”  After  these 
hired  chanters  came  the  male  relatives  of  the  de- 
ceased, but  the  females  followed  the  bier.  The 
hired  mourners  hovered  in  the  rear  ; they  laughed, 
ogled  the  wayfarers  over  their  heavy,  black  veils, 
chattered,  jostled  one  another,  yet  turned  again 
to  their  duty,  and  screamed  with  a piercing  tre- 
molo, or  with  short,  sharp  cries  that  rang  pain- 
fully upon  the  ear.  Many  bystanders  joined  in 
the  procession  ; it  is  thought  well  of  a man  if  he 
helps  to  swell  a funeral  pageant.  I joined  these 
volunteers,  and  was  crowded  in  among  the  chil- 
dren of  the  Prophet.  I was  pushed  from  one  side 
of  the  street  to  the  other  and  regarded  with  jealous 
eyes,  and  finally  refused  admittance  to  the  cem- 
etery, where  the  graves  lay  close  together,  and 
the  multitudes  of  white  or  painted  headstones, 
many  of  them  having  carved  fezes  or  turbans  on 
them,  glowed  and  glistened  in  the  sun.  Clouds 
of  sand  blew  over  the  walls  and  drifted  among  the 
tombs.  The  funeral  procession  paused  for  a few 


THE  DELTA. 


G3 


moments  at  the  open  grave  ; the  old  men  wagged 
their  heads  and  called  on  Allah  ; the  women 
screamed,  and  then  every  one  turned  back  into 
the  city,  sipped  coffee  and  smoked  until  the  tran- 
quil mind  had  dismissed  all  thoughts  of  death, 
and  only  the  beloved  sat  in  the  deserted  house, 
and  wailed  in  “the  night  of  desolation,”  for  the 
soul  is  supposed  to  lodge  in  the  body  four  and 
twenty  hours  after  death.  Therefore  he  sat  alone 
in  his  house,  wailing  through  the  night  of  desola- 
tion for  the  soul  that  was  passing  to  its  everlast- 
ing habitation. 

Why  tarry  longer  this  side  of  Cairo  ? thought 
I,  and  the  next  morning  took  train  and  steamed 
across  the  Delta.  As  for  Alexandria,  once  the 
wonder  of  the  world,  it  has  been  rubbed  out  and 
begun  again. 


VII. 

THE  DELTA. 

The  last  glimpse  of  Alexandria  from  the  rail- 
way station  in  the  extreme  west  of  the  town  is 
not  calculated  to  inspire  a feeling  of  regret  at 
quitting  this  gateway  of  the  East.  The  white 
city  glares  in  the  sun  ; everything  comes  to  a 
sudden  and  a rather  ugly  termination.  There  are 
new  buildings  slowly  rising  and  old  ones  are 
slowly  crumbling  away.  The  stonecutters  chip- 


64 


HASHALLAH ! 


ping  at  their  blocks ; the  masons  tapping  with 
their  trowels  ; the  complaining  camels  waiting  to 
be  relieved  of  their  burdens,  as  they  stagger  under 
the  loads  that  are  hung  to  their  humps  on  either 
side,  or  drop  down  on  their  knees  as  if  they  were 
going  all  to  pieces ; the  cries  of  the  laborers  as 
they  pull  at  the  ropes  and  swing  the  great  blocks 
of  yellow  stone  in  place — this  is  the  last  glimpse 
you  have  of  the  famous  port  of  Egypt  as  you  are 
about  to  set  forth  on  your  journey  across  the  Isth- 
mus of  Suez.  The  station  is  a fine  one,  and  the 
accommodations  not  to  be  complained  of,  yet  it 
seemed  to  me  that  the  building  was  out  of  place, 
and  that  it  needed  the  management  of  foreign 
hands  to  keep  it  in  good  condition. 

Sand  drifted  everywhere.  A multitude  of 
travelers  wandered  to  and  fro  under  the  unpaved 
corridors  and  through  the  rooms,  seeming  not  to 
know  what  to  do  with  themselves.  Coffee,  wines, 
cigars,  and  cakes  were  served  you  on  little  tables 
planted  almost  anywhere.  While  I sat  with  my 
heels  buried  in  the  very  edge  of  the  desert,  native 
bootblacks  haunted  me  with  just  English  enough 
at  their  disposal  to  make  it  necessary  for  them  to 
dispose  of  it  a thousand  times  over.  Volunteer 
porters  seized  upon  my  portmanteau  every  five 
minutes,  and  it  became  necessary  to  deposit  it  in 
the  next  room  before  they  were  persuaded  to  turn 
their  attention  to  some  fresher  arrival.  The 
ticket-seller  seemed  to  take  it  as  an  unkindness 


THE  DELTA. 


65 


on  the  part  of  the  traveling  public  that  his  medi- 
tations in  the  rear  of  the  office  were  so  frequently 
and  so  inconsiderately  disturbed.  We  were  all 
locked  out  of  the  platform  until  the  last  moment, 
and  then  hurried  into  our  respective  carriages  by 
guards,  who  overpowered  if  they  did  not  humble 
us  with  their  air  of  authority.  All  these  officials 
were  Turks  and  Moslems  ; the  Christian  dogs,  who 
have  had  their  day  in  the  cradle  of  their  creed, 
are  for  the  most  part  now  looked  upon  as  intruders, 
though  they  travel  first  class  and  scatter  money 
with  foolish  generosity  as  they  go.  The  express 
train  from  Alexandria  to  Cairo  does  the  one  hun- 
dred and  thirty-one  miles  in  four  and  a half  hours. 
I selected  the  accommodation  train  as  preferable — 
two  hours  extra  were  not  too  many  in  a land  that 
I have  come  to  see.  A bell  rang  in  the  station, 
and  I turned  to  the  window,  happy  in  the  thought 
that  I was  at  last  on  my  way  to  Cairo.  A few 
people  came,  out  of  the  many  that  were  lounging 
on  the  platform  of  the  station,  and  took  seats  in 
the  train.  As  we  didn’t  start  immediately,  they 
alighted  and  resumed  their  cigarettes.  Again  the 
bell  rung  and  yet  again,  and  it  was  apparently  a 
mere  accident  that  finally  set  us  in  motion,  and 
only  then  did  the  last  passenger  step  rather  brisk- 
ly to  the  edge  of  the  platform  and  clutch  the 
train  in  good  earnest,  and  with  a look  of  sur- 
prise. I know  not  how  many  times  we  halted  out 
in  the  brown  desert,  among  the  marshes  and  be- 
5 


66 


MASHALLAH ! 


side  green  pools  of  standing  water,  and  along  the 
grassy  prairies  of  the  Delta.  I have  a recollection 
of  bells  that  seemed  to  ring  for  no  earthly  reason 
save  to  flatter  us  into  the  belief  that  we  were 
starting  or  about  to  start.  As  we  ran  along  the 
shores,  the  low,  marshy  shores  of  Lake  Mareotis, 
which  old  Strabo  called  a sea,  the  desolation  of 
the  scene  removed  the  disappointment  and  regret 
that  I experienced  in  Alexandria  when  I was 
looking  in  vain  for  some  trace  of  its  original  splen- 
dor. When  Strabo’s  sea  was  covered  with  galleys, 
when  greater  riches  flowed  into  Alexandria  from 
this  still  water  than  from  the  great  sea  to  the 
west,  so  that  the  fairest  portion  of  the  city  lay 
among  these  marshes,  did  no  oracle  predict  that 
the  hour  would  come  when  the  stork  and  the 
pelican  would  stretch  their  necks  among  the  wav- 
ing reeds,  and  the  wild  duck  wing  its  arrowy 
flight  over  the  deserted  wastes,  unmolested  save 
by  the  occasional  flash  of  an  Englishman’s  rifle  ? 
On  each  side  of  the  road  small  Arab  villages  are 
literally  squatting  in  the  sun.  At  the  first  glance, 
it  is  difficult  to  imagine  them  inhabited  by  human 
beings ; mud  walls  as  high  as  your  head,  bent 
into  every  possible  angle,  covered  with  flat  roofs 
of  straw  and  all  kinds  of  refuse,  perforated  here 
and  there  with  small  doors,  each  door  leading  into 
a separate  habitation,  hut  the  effect  of  the  whole 
being  utterly  confusing  until  you  have  entered 
and  explored  a specimen  village. 


THE  DELTA. 


67 


These  villages  are  continually  compared  to 
enormous  wasps’  nests,  and  I can  think  of  no 
comparison  more  striking.  They  swarm  with 
half-naked  Arabs  and  stark-naked  children  ; with 
fowls  and  bleating  flocks  and  braying  donkeys. 
Overhead  the  pigeons  whirl  in  clouds,  for  they 
are  prized  for  their  guano,  the  chief  fuel  of  the 
country.  Sometimes  a date  palm  stands  alone  in 
the  midst  of  a mud-brown  village,  and  seems  to 
apologize  for  it  with  its  stately  stem  and  all  its 
lovely  leaves  ; without  the  palm  the  village  is 
sure  to  sink  into  insignificance,  for  you  seldom 
find  mosque,  dome,  or  a minaret  in  so  small  a 
community.  Sometimes  a camel  stands  with 
its  homely  and  awkward  legs  spread  out  and  its 
scornful  nose  in  the  air,  as  if  it  could  not  find 
words  to  express  its  contempt  for  these  habitations 
of  man — and  probably  it  can’t ! Out  of  the  hem 
of  the  desert  the  cotton  fields  begin  to  show  their 
little  bolls  of  snow ; the  corn  spreads  its  mantle 
over  the  land,  and  on  every  side  of  us  we  see  the 
drawers  of  water  dropping  their  leathern  buckets 
into  small  canals,  and  swinging  them  shoulder- 
high  over  into  the  gutters  that  feed  the  planted 
fields.  The  whole  country  seems  to  be  awakening 
from  its  drowsy,  desert  dream  as  we  approach  the 
Delta.  The  clover  creeps  off  into  the  desert,  all 
the  meadows  are  threaded  with  arteries  through 
which  the  water  actually  pulsates,  for  every  toss 
of  the  skin-bucket  over  the  shoulders  of  the  swart 


68 


MASHALLAH ! 


laborer  who  toils  from  dawn  to  dusk  sends  a wave 
leaping  from  end  to  end.  Stay  the  hand  of  that 
human  water-mill,  and  the  dry  tongue  of  the 
desert  will  lap  up  the  last  drop  of  moisture  from 
the  meadows  and  creep  down  day  by  day  until  it 
has  touched  the  sea.  They  feed  one  upon  the 
other — Egypt  and  the  Egyptian  ; cut  the  ligature 
that  binds  them  together,  body  to  body,  and  the 
bones  of  the  one  will  be  ground  into  the  sand  of 
the  other. 

At  Tantah,  a veritable  city,  with  mosques,  and 
minarets,  and  bazars,  and  caravans,  and  a great 
annual  fair  that  is  one  of  the  sights  of  Egypt — at 
Tantah  I gave  thanks  for  a deliverance  out  of  the 
disappointment  and  despondency  that  I had  suf- 
fered at  Alexandria.  Tantah  is  alive  with  all  the 
elements  of  the  East  that  as  yet  have  not  been  di- 
luted, as  they  certainly  are  at  Alexandria.  Tantah 
has  its  saint,  too,  a marvelous  fellow — by  the  by, 
they  call  a fellow  a fellah  in  this  country — who 
must  have  been  a giant  in  his  day,  for  the  Mos- 
lems call  on  him  in  their  distress ; and,  in  the 
midst  of  a storm,  when  in  danger  of  an  accident 
or  in  great  trouble  of  any  sort,  it  is  the  correct 
thing  to  cry,  “ Ya  seyyid,  ya  Bedawee  ! ” He 
was  a Bedawee.  On  his  return  from  Mecca  he 
passed  through  Tantah,  liked  it,  established  him- 
self there,  and  there  he  died,  about  six  centuries 
ago.  An  hour  before  daybreak  the  muezzin, 
leaning  from  the  starlit  gallery  of  his  minaret. 


THE  DELTA. 


69 


calls,  in  a loud,  clear  voice,  on  Seyyid  Ahmed-el- 
Bedawee,  and  his  name  is  coupled  with  “all  the 
favorites  of  God,”  by  the  united  voices  of  these 
prayer-callers  over  the  roofs  of  the  infidel  East. 
Happy  Tantah  ! Thrice  in  the  year  she  is  flood- 
ed with  pilgrims,  who  come  hither  to  pray  at  the 
tomb  of  St.  Seyyid.  As  many  as  two  hundred 
thousand  are  in  the  field  at  once.  While  cara- 
vans of  merchandise  are  heaped  in  her  streets, 
the  very  air  is  laden  with  spices  ; all  the  pictur- 
esque  people  of  the  desert  and  the  mountains 
pitch  their  tents  about  her  borders.  Armies 
of  camels  wag  their  flabby  lips  and  switch  their 
ridiculous  tails  in  dumb  contentment  so  long 
as  the  fair  lasts ; but,  on  the  ninth  day,  they 
cry  out  against  their  master  as  they  kneel  to 
be  reladen,  and  then,  with  long  strides,  they 
set  their  faces  toward  home,  and  Tantah  sub- 
sides into  summer  and  a furnace  heat.  At 
Tantah  we  are  in  the  land  of  Goshen.  We  might 
have  guessed  it  from  the  delicious  green  of  the 
juicy  grasses,  from  the  fragrant  gardens,  the 
flowering  almonds,  the  blossoming  beans,  the  fre- 
quent palms,  the  tamarisks — that  sacred  tree  of 
Osiris — and  from  the  orange  groves  that  are  not  far 
distant,  the  groves  that  glut  the  market  of  Cairo. 
We  have  crossed  one  branch  of  the  Nile,  almost 
without  looking  at  it,  for  we  wish  to  come  upon 
it  decently  and  in  order  at  Cairo,  where  the  Nile 
fleets  are  moored.  We  crossed  it  by  an  iron 


70 


MASHALLAH ! 


bridge  that  would  not  seem  out  of  place  were  it 
spanning  the  Thames,  hut  here  it  is  a two-mil- 
lion-dollar  innovation,  very  convenient,  no  doubt, 
though  one  hates  to  find  too  many  home  com- 
forts on  the  wrong  side  of  the  globe.  But  for  the 
accident  which  resulted  in  the  death  of  the  Khe- 
dive’s elder  brother  in  1856,  when  the  train  on 
which  he  was  returning  from  Alexandria  to  Cairo 
by  night  was  run  over  the  bank  into  the  river  in- 
stead of  on  to  a ferryboat  which  should  have  been 
there  to  receive  it — but  was  not — but  for  this  ca- 
lamity, which  hastened  the  present  Viceroy  to  the 
throne,  we  might  still  have  had  fifteen  minutes 
of  Kile  life  in  our  trip  across  the  isthmus.  Let 
us  bide  our  time.  Have  we  not  eaten  of  the  Yus- 
sef  Effendi  mandarins,  fresh  from  the  orchards  of 
Benha  ? They  are  the  juiciest  and  most  golden 
of  all  the  Egyptian  fruits,  and  the  lips  of  the 
Cairenes  are  never  so  musical  as  when  moist  with 
their  dew. 

Benha-el-Assal,  Benha-of-honey,  where  are 
your  comb-builders,  your  burly  bees,  that  they 
leave  the  Egyptian  bread  sour  and  dry  when  it 
should  be  sweet  and  toothsome,  for  it  is  hardly 
earned  ? Alas ! for  the  bees  of  Benha,  whose 
fame  has  given  birth  to  a proverb,  they  have 
swarmed  in  some  undiscovered  country,  some  oa- 
sis perchance,  where  they  give  new  life  to  the 
parched  lips  and  fainting  hearts  of  desert  pilgrims 
who  have  kept  their  treasure  secret.  Benha  falls 


THE  DELTA. 


71 


back  on  her  mandarins,  and  is  still  hailed  with 
delight  whenever  the  train  comes  in.  At  every 
station  between  Alexandria  and  Cairo,  the  trains 
are  visited  by  regiments  of  fruit-,  beer-,  and  water- 
sellers.  Everybody  bargains ; nearly  everybody 
buys  something  at  thrice  its  market  value.  Such 
big,  sleepy  eyes  as  are  turned  up  to  us  from  over 
the  solemn  black  veils  of  the  women  ; such  white 
teeth  as  flash  on  us  from  between  the  plump 
laughing  lips  of  the  children  ; round  arms,  high, 
proud  bosoms,  but  half  concealed  by  dark  blue 
robes  with  a thread  of  silver  woven  in  their  hem  ; 
full-blossomed  youth,  old  age  withered  and  woe- 
begone, dark  skins  and  fair  ones,  ebony  Nubians, 
pale  waifs  with  the  mark  of  the  Frank  indelibly 
impressed  in  form  and  feature,  and  all  of  them, 
every  single  soul,  crying  and  beseeching  “ Back- 
sheesh ! ” At  first  it  amuses  you,  this  perpetual 
teasing  of  a whole  race  ; then  you  grow  tired  of 
it,  and  after  that  comes  a dread  of  the  very  word 
that  is  sure  to  shut  your  heart  and  your  purse 
against  the  beggar  who  utters  it.  Yet  they  can  not 
be  blamed.  They  would  give  as  much,  no  doubt, 
as  you  give  them  were  you  to  change  places  with 
them.  Already  the  poverty  of  Egypt  begins  to 
stare  me  in  the  face.  A starving  people,  who  eat 
little,  and  so  very  little  that  it  is  a marvel  that 
they  live  and  flourish  on  it,  have  a right  to  ask  aid 
of  the  well-to-do  Howadji  who  visits  their  country 
for  the  mere  pleasure  of  the  hour.  He  is  their 


72 


MASHALLAH ! 


only  source  of  revenue,  and,  without  the  mite 
which  he  throws  them  from  time  to  time  (there 
is  small  danger  of  his  doing  it  too  often),  they 
would  suffer  the  lash  or  the  bastinado  at  the 
hands  of  the  Khedive’s  officials,  who  are  sent 
through  the  country  like  locusts  to  seize  upon  the 
major  part  of  all  that  is  good.  Little  creatures 
under  the  window,  with  copper  wristlets  and 
dangling  ear-rings  strung  with  bits  of  copper 
coin,  poised  their  porous  water-jars  in  the  palms 
of  their  hands,  and  held  their  hands  over  their 
shoulders  in  exquisitely  graceful  postures.  They 
took  the  copper  rings  from  their  ears  and  tore  the 
copper  bands  from  their  wrists  and  offered  us  the 
handful  for  a few  francs.  The  trinkets  were  not 
worth  as  many  sous,  and  with  patience  and  perse- 
verance they  would  have  given  them  to  you  at 
your  own  price,  but  it  served  to  assure  me  that 
their  cries  for  backsheesh  were  inspired  by  some- 
thing more  worthy  of  attention  than  the  com- 
plaints of  most  beggars.  These  people  will  work 
for  a mere  trifle,  and  work  as  no  one  else  can 
work  in  this  climate.  Their  wage  is  ridiculously 
small,  and  yet,  spite  of  their  toil,  their  hopeless, 
lifelong  toil,  they  sing  as  the  birds  sing  the  whole 
day  through  ; and  their  laugh  is  so  hearty  and 
frequent  that,  if  you  choose  to,  you  can  believe 
that  they  are  as  well  provided  for  as  yourself. 
Meanwhile,  the  lame,  the  halt  and  the  blind  work 
their  way  to  the  front,  and,  give  them  as  little  as 


THE  DELTA. 


73 


you  choose  or  give  nothing,  they  will  laugh  in 
their  luxurious  sunshine  and  sing  the  everlasting 
song  of  happy  indifference  to  fate.  I am  told 
that  their  creed  has  much  to  do  with  this  com- 
mendable spirit  of  resignation.  It  is  certainly 
not  common  with  Christians.  I believe  we  do 
not,  as  a general  thing,  carol  to  any  extent  on 
an  empty  stomach.  But  I am  forgetting  the 
Pharaohs.  As  we  whirled  too  rapidly  through 
the  green  meadows  of  Goshen,  I fell  into  a con- 
versation with  a fellow  passenger,  an  Englishman 
in  a fez,  which  indicated  that  the  wearer  was 
either  long  a resident  of  the  East,  or  had  just  ar- 
rived : having  heard  many  interesting  facts  in  his 
experience,  though,  like  an  Englishman,  he  was  to 
a very  great  extent  involved  in  a kind  of  hallowed 
mystery,  I was  surprised  and  amused  to  find  my 
unknown  companion  a man  of  considerable  im- 
portance in  the  district  where  he  alighted  from 
the  train.  A company  of  distinguished  Moslems 
awaited  his  advent  and  received  him  with  pro- 
found salaams  ; one  of  them  kissed  his  hand  with 
great  reverence  and  bowed  his  forehead  upon  the 
back  of  the  hand,  where  he  retained  it  a moment. 
A superb  horse,  I may  safely  call  it  a steed  on 
this  soil,  was  in  readiness,  and  when  my  late  com- 
panion was  seated  in  a saddle  that  blazed  with 
gold  embroidery,  and  with  its  scarlet  tassels  dan- 
gling almost  to  the  heels  of  the  charger,  several 
attendants  mounted  the  national  donkeys,  and  he 


74 


MASHALLAH ! 


departed  amid  the  repeated  salaams  of  the  com- 
pany. I suppose  I shall  never  discover  who  or 
what  he  was ; no  one  on  the  train,  with  whom  I 
spoke,  had  any  knowledge  of  him. 

The  interest  of  the  hour  was  beginning  to  flag 
when  a cry  rang  through  the  train  from  end  to 
end  ; the  whole  passenger  list  sprang  suddenly  to 
the  windows  ; on  our  right,  there  in  the  horizon, 
over  the  gardens  of  the  Cairenes,  between  the  palm 
groves  on  the  edge  of  the  desert,  beyond  the  broad 
line  of  yellow  sand,  loomed  the  Pyramids  ! From 
that  moment  my  heart  thumped  like  an  engine. 
On  both  sides  of  the  way,  far  off  in  the  horizon, 
rose  the  high  drifts  of  desert  sand.  The  banana 
and  the  palm  spring  close  besides  us.  The  me- 
nagerie— camels,  horses,  asses,  buffalo — that  never 
ceases  to  delight  so  long  as  Egypt  holds  you  in 
your  right  mind,  threaded  all  the  winding  roads  ; 
in  the  grass  by  the  wayside  white  ibises  were  feed- 
ing, as  fearless  as  barnyard  fowls.  Then  a glim- 
mer of  flat  roofs  and  swelling  domes,  of  towering 
minarets  and  twinkling  crescents,  all  in  a sunset 
flash.  The  tumult  of  the  arrival,  the  rapid  drive 
through  a city  I could  at  that  moment  have  called 
Paris,  or  anything,  it  is  so  Frankified  up  by  the 
station,  and  then  the  shadow  of  narrow  streets 
roofed  over,  the  glamour  and  the  glory  of  the 
East,  just  for  five  minutes  to  have  had  my  Ara- 
bian Tales  so  illustrated  is  worth  a lifetime  of 
aimless  wandering.  A narrow  lane  between  tall 


GRAND  CAIRO. 


75 


buildings,  a lane  that  seemed  endless,  and  with 
all  its  turns  for  nothing,  and  then — a hammock 
under  the  palms  in  a hidden  garden  in  the  moon- 
light, and  around  me  the  broad  verandas  of  the 
most  charming  hotel  in  Cairo  ! 


VIII. 

GRAND  CAIRO. 

Hotel  dv  Nil,  Cairo. 

My  first  night  in  Cairo  was  so  like  a chapter 
out  of  the  “Arabian  Tales,”  that  I could  scarcely 
believe  my  eyes  as  I strolled  about  and  met  the 
Enchanted  Princess,  the  Slave  of  Love,  the  Cal- 
enders, the  Three  Sisters,  and  the  Barber  with  all 
his  brothers.  The  garden  of  the  hotel  but  half 
dispelled  the  charm  of  my  new  life,  for  as  a gar- 
den it  is  worthy  to  be  named  in  story,  if  but  the 
moon  looks  over  the  high  roof  of  the  house  ad- 
joining, and  covers  the  palms  with  glory.  Birds 
start  from  their  sleep  and  mutter  among  the 
branches ; the  mummies’  cases  that  stand  at  the 
top  of  the  broad  avenue  look  as  if  they  could  make 
astounding  revelations  if  they  but  chose  to  break 
the  silence  of  three  thousand  years.  The  croco- 
dile that  is  suspended  under  the  veranda  stirs  in 
the  light  breeze,  and  seems  alive  again,  and  a pet 
monkey  drops  suddenly  into  your  lap  as  you 


76 


MASHALLAH ! 


lounge  in  one  of  the  arbors,  your  cigar  alight, 
and  your  soul  at  peace  with  all  the  world.  The 
kiosk  in  the  center  of  the  garden  is  stored  with 
the  latest  journals.  Here  the  loyal  Britisher 
reads  his  “Times,”  and  the  American  abroad 
turns  fondly  to  his  favorite  ; but  for  the  English 
one  hears  and  the  traveling  suits  one  sees,  the 
garden  might  pass  for  an  oasis  in  the  sand  and 
the  dust  of  the  city.  Our  servants  are  mostly 
natives.  We  go  to  our  doors  and  windows  when 
we  are  in  need  of  service,  clap  our  hands  thrice  in 
a melodramatic  manner,  and  receive  an  imme- 
diate response  from  some  corner  of  the  garden ; 
we  give  our  orders  in  Italian  or  French,  and  are 
obeyed  in  silence.  The  cool,  delicious  air  of  the 
early  morning  woos  us  from  our  sleep ; we  take 
our  coffee  and  our  rolls  at  any  hour  we  choose, 
and  this  light  refreshment  lasts  until  midday, 
when  breakfast  is  served  in  state.  Of  course,  we 
have  been  busy  sight-seeing  and  are  inclined  to 
talk  with  our  neighbor,  exchanging  impressions 
and  forming  new  plans.  In  the  afternoon  we 
doze  ; for,  though  the  Cairo  winter  is  not  by  any 
means  hot,  we  find  it  pleasanter  to  rest  when  the 
sun  is  overhead,  and  to  set  out  afresh  toward 
evening,  when  the  city  is  seen  to  the  best  advan- 
tage. 

The  Khedive,  with  an  affectation  of  the  spirit 
of  reform  which  delights  the  superficial  observ- 
er, although  the  advantages  of  that  reformation 


GRAND  CAIRO. 


77 


seem  to  touch  him  solely  while  they  entirely  es- 
cape his  people — the  Khedive  is  rapidly  trans- 
forming Cairo  into  a kind  of  spurious  Paris.  The 
Saracenic  walls  are  pounded  into  powder ; the 
narrow,  winding  lanes — you  can  hardly  call  them 
streets,  they  are  so  narrow  and  so  crooked — are 
being  broadened  and  straightened ; the  brown 
tints  of  the  old  houses  are  covered  over  with  a 
whitewash  that  glares  unpleasantly  in  the  bright 
sunshine.  The  newer  suburbs  are  filled  with 
villas  in  the  midst  of  dusty  gardens  that  might  as 
well  locate  themselves  in  some  French  city,  for 
they  look  out  of  place  in  Egypt,  and  rob  the 
country  of  much  of  its  picturesqueness.  All 
the  hotels  are  utterly  modern  ; pass  the  great 
ugly  stone  front  of  the  new  hotel  opposite  the 
Ezbekeeyah,  once  a grove  where  the  Moslems 
sipped  coffee  and  smoked  the  nargileh,  and  now  a 
hideous  artificial  garden  with  a high  iron  fence 
about  it,  and  you  will  see  the  kiosk  before  the 
chief  entrance  filled  with  pleasure-  or  health-seek- 
ing foreigners,  who  assume  the  Oriental  languor 
and  the  fez  immediately  upon  their  arrrival,  and 
burden  themselves  with  both  during  the  few 
weeks  of  their  stay  in  a country  they  never  get 
used  to.  Shepherd’s  Hotel,  not  far  removed,  and 
in  the  heart  of  the  reformed  quarter  of  the  city, 
is  another  spectacle  for  gods  and  donkey-boys. 
Thomas  Cook  & Son’s  traveling  caravans  pour  into 
Shepherd’s  from  time  to  time  ; they  are  an  uneasy, 


78 


MASHALLAH ! 


ill-assorted,  “ personally  conducted  ” lot ; tliey  go 
forth  in  a body  and  do  up  the  town  sights  by 
machinery,  and  Heaven  protect  the  conscientious 
traveler  whose  track  lies  in  their  wake  ! 

This  is  not  the  Cairo  I have  dreamed  of  ; even 
the  fine  fellow  with  his  turban  wound  gracefully 
about  his  head,  only  the  scarlet  top  of  his  tarboosh 
visible,  and  his  long  garments  of  various  colors, 
that  wrap  him  from  shoulder  to  feet,  even  this 
man,  who  has  fabrics  of  silver  and  gold  and 
camel’s  hair,  and  the  soft,  embroidered  tissues  of 
Persia  for  sale,  can  not  make  me  forget  that  I 
am  in  the  midst  of  foreigners,  who  have  brought 
hither  the  atmosphere  of  the  very  countries  I have 
lately  fled  from.  There  are  the  sellers  of  scented 
water,  who  carry  their  refreshing  drink  in  huge 
jars  of  porous  clay  strapped  to  their  hacks ; the 
mouth  of  the  vessel  is  often  filled  with  flowers ; 
the  long  spout  that  curls  over  their  shoulder 
shoots  out  its  delicious  stream  when  the  vender 
stoops  over  and  holds  his  brazen  cup  in  front  of 
him  to  receive  it.  They  are  capital  shots,  these 
watermen.  Those  of  the  poorer  class  carry  water 
in  goat-skin  sacks,  with  a long  brass  stem,  the 
mouth  of  which  they  stop  with  their  thumbs. 
These  water-carriers  have  two  brazen  cups,  and  it 
is  their  custom  to  go  about  the  streets  clashing 
the  cups  together  like  cymbals.  The  pipe-cleaners, 
the  itinerant  barbers  who  shave  their  customers 
on  the  curbstones,  if  there  be  one,  or  under  a 


GRAND  CAIRO. 


79 


tree ; the  soothsayers,  dressed  in  rags  and  read- 
ing fortunes  in  a handful  of  cowry  shells,  coppers, 
and  colored  heads  ; the  necromancers  and  snake- 
charmers,  and  men  with  dancing  monkeys,  and 
boys  with  great,  fat  lizards  for  sale  ; the  women 
in  their  sacks  of  silk,  and  their  veils  that  are  held 
as  high  as  the  bridges  of  their  noses  by  bamboo 
bowsprits  that  shoot  up  to  the  roots  of  their  hair, 
and  are  fastened  in  their  head  gear ; the  harem 
beauties  in  stylish  broughams  with  an  English 
driver  and  a eunuch  on  the  box  ; the  sons  of  the 
Khedive  driving  out,  each  in  his  own  establish- 
ment, and  just  such  a one  as  would  cause  no 
comment  in  Hyde  Park  during  the  season  ; the 
Khedive  himself  in  a handsome  carriage,  with  a 
brace  of  swift-footed,  sleek-limbed  sais,  glorious 
in  gold-embroidered  jackets,  flowing,  snow-white 
skirts,  and  sleeves  that  spread  like  wings,  in  jaunty 
tarbooshes  with  tossing  tassels  half  a yard  in 
length,  running  forty  paces  in  advance  of  the 
horses  and  clearing  the  crowded  streets ; a half- 
dozen  mounted  attendants,  and  nothing  more — 
not  even  so  much  as  a recognition  from  the  pop- 
ulace who  are  crowded  close  upon  the  hoofs 
of  his  horses — all  these  elements  of  Cairene 
daily  life,  delightful  as  they  are,  can  not  cause 
me  to  overlook  the  fact  that  Cairo  is  slowly  but 
surely  going  to  the  dogs — the  Christian  dogs,  I 
mean  ! 

I did  once  succeed  in  losing  myself.  I was 


80 


MASHALLAH ! 


on  foot  and  quite  alone,  which  accounts  for  it. 
With  infinite  difficulty  I had  escaped  the  impor- 
tuning donkey-boys,  and  was  strolling  from  one 
street  to  another,  past  numberless  mosques  and 
drinking-fountains  and  enticing  coffee-shops.  I 
lost  all  track  of  my  countrymen  ; there  wasn’t  a 
cork  hat  (like  an  inverted  washbowl),  or  a white 
umbrella,  or  a pair  of  canvas  shoes  to  he  seen. 
Even  the  donkey  and  his  master  seemed  to  have 
dissolved  into  thin  air.  I passed  through  great 
street  gates,  such  as  shut  the  residents  of  the 
various  quarters  of  the  town  each  in  his  own  quar- 
ter, and  saw  the  mud-brown  houses  that  as  yet 
have  not  grown  white  at  the  approach  of  the  in- 
novator, whose  stories  crept  out  over  the  street, 
farther  and  farther  the  higher  they  get,  and  where 
the  roofs  of  the  opposite  houses  almost  meet  at 
last.  These  streets  were  very  shady,  and  very  cool 
and  quiet.  Many  an  eye  was  turned  on  me  in 
surprise,  and  when  I had  at  last  come  into  a re- 
mote quarter  beyond  half  a dozen  streets,  and 
found  myself  suddenly  surrounded  by  a mob  of 
half-grown  boys,  who  were  evidently  unaccus- 
tomed to  intruders,  I was  forced  to  make  as 
speedy  a retreat  as  possible,  followed  by  a shower 
of  stones.  The  gates,  which  are  closed  at  evening, 
make  separate  cities  of  these  several  quarters.  If 
you  wish  to  pass  from  one  quarter  to  another  after 
dark,  you  must  take  your  lantern  and  summon 
the  gatekeeper,  who  responds  and  carefully  locks 


GRAND  CAIRO. 


81 


you  out  afterward.  Gas-lamps  are  unknown  in 
that  end  of  Cairo,  and  white  faces  a novelty.  I 
was  an  hour  or  more  working  my  way  out  of  the 
unchristian  latitudes,  climbing  out,  as  it  were,  by 
the  minarets,  in  each  of  which  I fancied  I saw  a 
resemblance  to  the  one  that  stands  within  earshot 
of  our  hotel.  All  foreigners  either  ride  or  drive  in 
Cairo,  but  I got  more  experience  in  that  one  walk 
than  I could  have  gathered  with  the  aid  of  fifty 
donkeys. 

One  comes  in  from  the  streets  weary  and  dust- 
covered.  The  after-breakfast  hour  in  the  shade 
of  our  garden,  with  a mouthful  of  thick,  black 
coffee,  in  a cup  about  the  size  of  an  egg-shell, 
a cigarette  and  an  easy-chair,  is  as  precious  as 
almost  any  in  the  day.  It  is  then  that  the  vener- 
able Bedawee  who  for  ever  haunts  us  draws  forth 
from  his  coarse  camel’s-hair  cloak  a handful  of 
scarabae,  and  assures  us  in  good  English  that  they 
are  genuine  antiques,  and  not  base  imitations. 
The  magician  arrives  and  performs  clever  tricks, 
after  each  of  which  he  begs  a trifle  ; nothing  short 
of  a shilling  satisfies  him,  and  he  is  apt  to  turn 
on  his  heel  and  depart  in  disgust  before  his  reper- 
toire is  half  exhausted.  Yesterday  a little  fellow, 
who  was  awaiting  patronage  by  the  hotel  garden 
gate,  cried  out  to  me,  “Want  to  see  snakes, 
Howadji  ?”  and  the  next  moment  he  emptied  a 
bag  of  sluggish  reptiles  at  my  feet,  and  began 
twining  them  about  his  neck  and  arms.  That  boy 
6 


82 


MASHALLAH [ 


goes  to  sleep  in  the  afternoon  with  his  bag  of 
snakes  for  a pillow. 

As  the  day  begins  to  wane,  if  it  be  Friday  or 
Sunday,  we,  the  time-killers  of  Cairo,  hasten  to 
the  Shoobra,  and  for  two  hours  or  more  drive  up 
and  down  one  of  the  strangest  avenues  under  the 
sun.  The  Shoobra  road  leads  from  Cairo  to  the 
village  of  Shoobra,  about  four  miles  distant.  It 
is  as  straight  as  an  arrow,  and  is  bordered  by  syca- 
more, fig,  and  acacia  trees.  The  dense  boughs 
are  interlocked  above  it.  Palaces  and  villas  are 
scattered  here  and  there,  and  on  each  side  you 
look  off  upon  great  meadows,  dotted  with  ibises 
and  sprinkled  with  palms,  and  see  in  the  horizon 
the  summits  of  the  Pyramids.  All  that  is  lovely 
and  unlovely  in  Cairo  finds  its  way  to  the  Shoo- 
bra ; the  beauties  and  the  beasts,  the  princes, 
the  beggars,  the  idols  of  the  harem,  donkey-boys, 
foreigners,  camel  trains,  and  the  odds  and  ends 
of  humanity.  You  drive  up  one  side  of  the  way 
and  down  the  other,  ogling  and  being  ogled  to 
your  heart’s  content.  The  fat  gentleman  in  Euro- 
pean costume,  with  a tarboosh  and  a half-dozen 
mounted  attendants,  is  the  Khedive.  In  that 
close  carriage,  under  the  protection  of  a eunuch 
on  a splendid  horse,  are  two  of  his  favorite  wives 
— milk-white  Circassian  beauties  with  their  faces 
swathed  in  snowy  folds  of  gauze  ; the  exquisite 
carmine  lips,  even  the  faint  rose-tint  of  the  cheek, 
are  visible  through  this  coquettish  mask  ; high- 


GRAND  CAIRO. 


83 


arched  eyebrows  and  eyes  as  black  as  night  are 
busy  with  the  world  they  know  so  little  of. 
Lovely  beyond  description  are  these  slaves,  but  in 
spite  of  this  dazzling  loveliness  you  can  see  that 
it  is  chiefly  artificial.  The  eyebrows  are  painted  ; 
the  eyelids  are  tipped  with  kohl,  and  a dark  line 
extending  from  the  outer  corners  of  the  eyes  makes 
them  seem  much  larger  than  they  are.  That 
white  skin  is  softened  and  made  whiter  with  pow- 
der ; the  flush  of  the  cheek  and  the  glow  of  the 
lips  have  been  heightened  for  the  occasion,  and  all 
the  gauze  that  covers  the  forehead  like  a turban, 
and  the  lower  part  of  the  face  like  a transparent 
mask,  adds  immensely  to  the  brilliancy  of  these 
feminine  charms.  With  white  eamels’-hair  shawls, 
covered  with  rich  gold  embroidery,  lemon-colored 
kids,  a Parisian  fan,  the  light  of  the  harem  is  suf- 
fered to  blaze  upon  the  world  for  a brief  hour,  but 
she  must  stop  within  her  prison  like  a gorgeous 
tropical  flower  under  glass,  or  that  light  will  be 
put  out ! Two,  three,  a half-dozen  carriages,  and 
some  of  them  having  three  or  four  veiled  beauties 
in  them,  wheel  slowly  by ; a eunuch  to  each — a 
brutal-looking  thing  he  is — and  there  you  have 
some  of  the  more  favored  of  the  wives  at  the 
mercy  of  your  eyes.  You  may  look  as  earnestly 
as  you  choose  and  you  will  not  out-stare  them  ; 
smile  even,  and  the  chances  are  they  will  hide  a 
smile  in  their  fans.  Ya  Mahomet ! is  your  harem 
stored  with  fleshpots  such  as  these  ? Look  well. 


84 


MASHALLAH ! 


for  you  can  not  look  long  ; the  carriage  rolls  away, 
you  are  dazed  for  a moment,  but  for  a moment 
only,  for  in  the  muffled  rumble  of  those  wheels 
you  are  delivered  from  the  snare  of  splendid 
eyes. 

On  the  Shoobra  you  are  best  able  to  classify 
Cairenes.  You  at  once  detect  and  throw  out  the 
tourist,  who  is  here  for  the  season  only.  What  is 
left,  then,  if  we  do  not  consider  the  natives  of  the 
East  ? A few  Italians,  who  may  be  either  spurious 
counts  or  tenors  in  the  opera  ; some  Greeks,  full 
of  cunning  and  conceit,  not  a few  members  of  the 
ballet  corps,  and  the  over-dressed  and  under-bred 
ladies  who  pass  for  countesses,  but  who  are  more 
likely  to  have  graduated  from  the  velocipedes  in 
the  cafe  chantants  of  Paris  and  Vienna.  On  our 
return  to  town,  swarms  of  the  sais  are  in  waiting, 
for  they  are  not  allowed  on  the  fashionable  drive. 
They  spring  lightly  in  front  of  the  horses,  wave 
their  wands,  and,  as  if  by  magic,  the  way  opens 
before  them.  These  runners  are  the  most  grace- 
ful and  picturesque  people  of  this  race  ; they 
are  as  light-footed  as  gazelles ; their  muscles  are 
of  fine  steel,  elastic  and  bounding.  They  tire  out 
a horse,  and  show  no  fatigue  after  they  have  run 
for  hours,  but  they  come  to  their  graves  while  the 
dew  of  their  youth  is  still  moist  and  their  upper 
lips  are  scarcely  darkened  with  down. 

We  go  to  the  citadel  at  sunset,  climbing  up  the 
long  hill  to  the  bluff  on  which  it  stands.  The 


GRAND  CAIRO. 


85 


mosque  of  Mahomet  Ali,  the  minarets  of  which  give 
the  first  welcome  to  the  stranger  as  he  approaches 
Cairo,  is  at  your  hack.  You  lean  from  the  parapet 
that  crowns  an  abrupt  cliff,  three  hundred  feet 
above  the  plain  below.  The  glare  has  gone  out  of 
the  sky,  and  a soft,  transparent  shadow  seems  to 
be  floating  in  the  air,  a silvery-blue  veil  through 
Avhich  every  object  visible  in  the  plain  is  idealized. 
The  thousands  of  flat  roofs  swarm  with  those  who 
have  come  out  upon  the  housetops  to  enjoy  the 
twilight ; the  mosque  domes  look  as  light  and  airy 
as  bubbles  ; minarets  and  stately  palms  pierce  the 
delicious  air  ; so  still  is  everything  that  the  great 
cemetery  beneath  you,  with  its  domed  tombs 
and  walls  and  narrow  streets,  and  memorial  stones 
that  resemble  men  at  this  distance — the  dead  city 
seems  one  with  the  living  city,  and  both  are  silent 
under  the  sheltering  wing  of  night.  From  the 
citadel  you  track  the  Nile  for  miles,  with  its  broad 
green  hem,  its  palms  and  pyramids,  and  the  white 
flocks  of  its  barges  drifting  to  and  fro.  There  i3 
the  desert,  that  sea  of  sand  stretching  its  tawny 
waves  to  the  horizon,  as  vast,  as  mysterious,  as 
solemn  as  night  itself.  A little  shiver  slides  down 
your  spine  ; it  is  time  to  be  getting  down  into  the 
town  again,  for  the  evening  is  chilly.  What  re- 
mains ? The  opera  in  the  evening,  in  the  handsome 
house  that  was  built  as  if  by  magic  in  the  short 
space  of  five  months,  and  was  ready  for  the  open- 
ing fetes  of  the  Suez  Canal  in  1869  ; “ Aida,”  on 


86 


MASHALLAH ! 


its  native  boards,  with  remarkably  fine  appoint- 
ments. The  Khedive  is  in  bis  proscenium  box  ; a 
couple  of  boxes  full  of  sons  next  to  him  ; half  a 
dozen  boxes  opposite  closed  in  with  thick  wire 
cloth,  so  that  you  see  white  ghosts  moving  among 
the  shadows  like  splendid  cockatoos,  but  are  un- 
able to  distinguish  the  faces  ; these  are  the  cages 
for  the  harem  ; the  eunuchs  keep  the  restless  oc- 
cupants under  lock  and  key.  The  lower  boxes 
are  mostly  empty  ; the  upper  circle  is  comfort- 
ably filled  with  black  and  brown  faces,  white  tur- 
bans, and  scarlet  tarbooshes.  Egyptian  atten- 
dants in  native  costume  come  out  and  touch 
up  the  footlights ; it  is  as  if  a new  scene  in 
“Aida ” were  being  rehearsed.  This  great,  empty 
house,  with  its  company  of  four  hundred  singers, 
dancers,  musicians,  and  supernumeraries,  is  one 
of  the  evidences  of  that  celebrated  reform  which 
the  Khedive  is  working  in  Egypt.  He  sinks 
some  thousands  of  francs  per  night  during  a long 
season  of  opera.  The  establishment  has  never 
paid,  but  all  deficiencies  are  made  up  from  the 
private  purse  of  this  illustrious  progressionalist. 
He  amuses  himself  with  the  ballet,  delights  the 
foreigner  with  his  display  of  generosity,  and  gets 
much  credit  from  the  world  at  large  for  his  ad- 
vanced and  liberal  views.  Meanwhile  his  miser- 
able, ill -fed,  thoroughly  cowed  slave -subjects 
supply  the  extra  drain  upon  the  royal  purse,  and 
dumbly  accept  an  increase  of  taxes.  Justice  is  an 


THE  BATHS  AND  THE  BAZAARS. 


87 


excellent  thing  in  the  Old  Testament,  but  it  seems 
to  have  gone  out  of  fashion  on  its  native  soil.  At 
midnight  the  dark  Mooskee  is  illuminated  by  a 
troupe  of  half -naked  runners,  who  bear  aloft  their 
torches  with  flames  a yard  long.  In  the  midst  of 
this  flight  of  demons — the  spectacle  is  startling 
and  uncommon — the  Khedive  is  whirled  away  to 
his  harem,  and  the  Mooskee  is  left  in  silence  and 
deeper  darkness. 


IX. 

THE  BATHS  AND  THE  BAZAARS. 

It  is  his  voice,  his  pathetic  and  penetrating 
voice,  that  breaks  the  silence  of  this  venerable 
land,  and  that  song  of  his  will  recur  to  you  again 
and  again,  when  old  Egypt  shall  have  become  a 
dim  but  ever-delightful  memory  in  your  life.  It 
is  his  patient,  baby  face,  the  image  of  innocence, 
his  soft,  dark  eye,  with  just  a suggestion  of  mis- 
chief lurking  in  the  corner  of  it,  his  dainty  foot- 
steps that  fall  as  lightly  as  “blown  roses  on  the 
grass  ” ; you  will  recall  his  arch,  coquettish  ways, 
his  childish  faith  in  Providence  that  teaches  him 
to  bear  and  forbear  and  abide  his  time.  This  he 
does,  for  he  can’t  help  himself  ; he  is  at  the 
mercy  of  a little  tyrant,  who  follows  him  like  a 
fate  ; the  voice  of  his  master  is  continually  in  his 


88 


MASHALLAH ! 


ears,  and  such  ears  ! They  are  ears  in  which  the 
echoes  might  increase  and  multiply  the  shrill 
piping  cries  of  that  pitiless  master  until  the  firma- 
ment seemed  stuffed  full  of  donkey  hoys ; it  is 
then  that  he  sets  his  face  against  heaven,  and 
straightens  his  neck  and  opens  his  mouth,  as  if  he 
were  about  to  discharge  a ramrod  that  had  long 
been  kept  secret  within  him.  At  last  the  hour  of 
his  deliverance  has  come,  and  what  an  hour  it  is 
for  all  parties  concerned,  when  the  heavens  seem 
likely  to  fall,  and  the  earth  to  quake,  and  the 
fountains  of  the  great  deep  to  be  broken  up  ! It 
was  his  song  ; all  his  very  own  ; no  other  living 
creature  cares  to  lay  claim  to  it ; and  there  are 
those  who  are  dumb,  the  slug,  for  instance,  and 
the  snail  in  her  winding  house — they  are  all  voice- 
less for  ever,  and  only  because  they  have  heard  the 
chant  of  the  Egyptian  “ donk,”  and  have  been 
holding  their  breath  all  these  years,  lest  by  chance, 
or  in  the  course  of  nature,  their  song  might  he 
like  unto  his.  Ah  ! to  have  heard  him,  if  for  but 
once,  and  to  hear  him  yet  again  as  he  writhes  in 
his  delicious  agony,  and  gasps  and  gags  while  all 
the  immeasurable  melody  of  his  melodious  tribe  is 
chopped  off  and  spouted  forth  at  each  vibration  of 
his  ears  and  tail,  as  if  it  were  being  pumped  out 
by  some  powerful  hut  invisible  agency — and  the 
pump  needed  greasing.  He  is  the  glory  and  the 
shame  of  that  little  tyrant,  his  master.  His  shaggy 
coat  is  shaven  as  smooth  as  velvet.  Sometimes 


THE  BATHS  AND  THE  BAZAARS. 


89 


ridges  of  fur  are  left  on  his  sides,  embroideries 
that  are  highly  picturesque  ; his  legs  are  trimmed 
so  finely  that  he  beguiles  you  into  the  belief  that 
he  has  on  two  pairs  of  clocked  stockings.  He 
jingles  all  over  with  bells  and  cowry-shells,  worn 
for  luck.  He  is  a study  of  color ; he  even  dyes 
his  hair  in  some  cases,  and  if  his  jacket  is  natu- 
rally white  the  chances  are  he  will  have  a blue 
forehead  and  rose-tinted  hoofs ; and  when  his 
great  padded  saddle,  about  the  shape  of  a bag  of 
sand,  and  quite  as  hard,  is  covered  with  a cloth  of 
deep  scarlet,  fringed  with  gold,  that  falls  over  his 
tail  and  makes  such  a figure  in  the  perpetual  cir- 
cus of  the  Cairo  streets,  there  is  nothing  more 
splendid  than  he,  and  he  knows  it. 

This  establishment  is  engaged  for  the  tour  of 
the  bazaars.  Your  donkey  goes  anywhere,  up 
stairs  or  down,  through  a door  or  a window,  into 
the  most  secret  recesses  of  the  merchants’  quar- 
ters, and  it  is  for  this  reason  that  we  engage 
him.  Let  us  hence,  Ali,  or  whatever  your  name 
chances  to  be  this  morning ! I find  that  the 
donkey  changes  his  name  to  suit  the  nationality 
of  his  rider,  and  perhaps  the  boy-master  has  an 
eye  to  the  sentiment  of  his  customer,  and  is 
equally  obliging.  Ali,  who  has  been  holding 
his  diminutive  beast  by  the  bridle  for  the  last 
two  hours,  now  skips  into  the  middle  of  the  ever- 
shadowy  mooskee,  and  with  consummate  skill 
manages  to  insert  his  beast  between  my  legs,  and 


90 


MASHALLAH ! 


we  dasli  off  at  a high  rate  of  speed.  I am 
obliged  to  give  my  attention  to  the  saddle,  for 
we  are  driven  from  side  to  side — Ali,  donkey, 
and  myself  — by  the  dense  crowd  that  sways 
hither  and  thither.  Carriages  drive  us  to  the 
wall,  camels  step  over  us,  other  donkeys  salute 
us  on  the  wing,  and  meanwhile  a thousand  fellahs 
have  cursed  us  for  riding  into  their  stomachs,  and 
half  a thousand  fellahahs,  the  wives  of  the  above, 
good  country  folk,  are  a little  dazed  with  the 
gorgeousness  of  the  city,  and  forget  to  step  out  of 
the  way.  The  mooskee  is  always  our  starting  point ; 
we  wind  our  way  out  to  the  mooskee  through  the 
dai’k  lane  under  the  houses  that  crowd  against  the 
garden  of  our  hotel.  The  mooskee  is  always  in 
shadow,  for  the  street  is  roofed  over  in  the  fashion 
of  the  bazaar,  and  every  merchant  on  the  two 
sides  of  it  throws  down  the  front  of  his  shop,  and 
admits  you  to  the  inspection  of  his  wares  as  you 
sit  in  the  saddle.  Ali  pilots  me  through  the 
swarming  Cairenes,  and,  finally,  with  an  agile 
thrust  of  his  shoulder,  suddenly  precipitates  the 
donkey  and  me  into  a narrow  side  street  that  leads 
off  to  the  bazaars.  Ali  is  always  doing  something 
of  this  kind  ; sometimes  he  gives  a lift  from  be- 
hind, and  I am  launched  on  to  the  ears  of  my 
donkey.  This  is  his  way  of  heightening  our  rate 
of  speed  as  he  runs  behind  us,  barelegged,  and 
with  a single  garment  partially  enveloping  his 
breast. 


THE  BATHS  AND  THE  BAZAARS. 


91 


The  covered  passages  in  the  bazaar  quarter 
are  filled  with  a soft  amber  light  that  makes  a 
kind  of  paradise  of  old  houses  that  can’t  be  very 
clean.  The  bazaars  are  numerous,  but  they  cleave 
one  to  another,  the  silversmith  to  his  neighbor- 
ing silversmith,  the  seller  of  spices  to  the  other 
spice-sellers,  all  those  of  a kind  squatting  in  a 
row,  patiently  waiting  custom  without  any  show 
of  jealousy  or  even  of  rivalry,  also  without  much 
energy  and  apparently  without  guile.  Each  shop 
is  in  reality  a mere  cabinet  thrown  wide  open  to 
the  street.  It  is  crowded  with  fabrics  that  are 
displayed  only  when  a customer  presents  himself 
and  prevails  upon  the  sedate  merchant,  who  may 
be  smoking,  sleeping,  or  at  prayer  on  the  counter, 
to  allow  him  to  bargain  for  his  wares.  Life  is  too 
short  to  admit  of  many  purchases  in  a Turkish 
bazaar.  You  must  needs  talk  against  time  and  to 
no  purpose  whatever  until  the  merchant  discovers 
that  you  are  not  to  be  starved  out  and  driven  up 
to  his  exorbitant  price  by  hunger  or  impatience  ; 
he  regales  you  with  lemonade  or  coffee  or  a pipe, 
if  you  will ; he  cheerfully  displays  every  article 
in  his  shop,  and  gives  you  ample  opportunity  to 
examine  the  texture  thereof,  but  he  will  not  be 
persuaded  to  show  much  interest  in  you  as  a cus- 
tomer ; in  fact,  you  are  apt  to  feel  as  if  the  mer- 
chant had  done  you  the  greatest  possible  favor 
in  allowing  you  to  purchase  of  his  stock  at  any 
price. 


92 


MASHALLAH ! 


For  hours  we  drift  to  and  fro  among  the  shady 
aisles  of  the  bazaars  from  soolc  to  soolc,  as  the 
various  quarters  are  called.  The  gold-  and  silver- 
smiths bring  forth  their  treasures — barbaric  orna- 
ments for  head  and  breast  and  arms  ; bracelets  as 
thick  as  ropes,  roughly  beaten  out  of  precious 
ores  ; caskets,  to  be  worn  on  chains,  wherein  mys- 
tical writing  is  concealed ; armlets,  charms,  rude 
rings  set  with  great  turquoises  ; belts  of  glittering 
disks  linked  in  and  in,  and  necklaces  of  coins 
strung  together  in  a web  that  covers  half  the 
breast.  We  move  among  merchants  sitting  cross- 
legged  among  bales  of  rich  embroideries  ; bazaars 
with  millions  of  slippers,  and  nothing  hut  slip- 
pers, visible  ; perfumers,  who  freight  the  air  with 
subtle  odors,  who  have  sacks  of  gums  yawning 
before  them — frankincense,  myrrh,  aloes,  and  rose- 
attar  ; tobacconists,  pipe-sellers,  armorers,  with  an- 
tique Damascus  blades  and  shields  and  choice 
armor  of  curious  workmanship  ; stores  of  oil  and 
honey ; sellers  of  fruits  and  cool  drinks  chilled 
with  snow ; cooks  who  keep  their  spits  turning 
and  feed  the  hungry  mouths  of  these  easy-going 
merchants,  who  send  to  them  for  their  dinner 
when  they  grow  weary  of  their  pipe.  There  are 
inner  rooms,  or  courts,  hung  with  draperies,  lit 
by  the  subdued  light  that  steals  through  the 
painted  awning  of  rushes,  and  here  the  carpets 
of  Smyrna  and  the  rugs  of  Damascus  and  Stam- 
boul  are  unrolled  at  your  feet — bewildering  bits 


THE  BATHS  AND  THE  BAZAARS. 


93 


of  color  that  make  a garden  of  the  dingy  barn- 
like court.  The  sooks  are  very  Babels.  On  cer- 
tain days  auctioneers  push  their  way  through  the 
crowds  of  customers  who  are  nearly  always  to 
be  found  here,  crying  their  wares  from  end  to 
end,  and  followed  by  those  who  are  bent  upon 
bringing  the  bargain  to  a close  while  it  is  yet 
day : old  lamps  and  new,  garments  that  are 
fresh  from  the  hands  of  the  dainty  needle-wo- 
man, garments  that  have  been  worn  threadbare 
and  faded  in  the  fierce  sunshine,  and  turned 
and  patched  and  cast  off,  to  be  re-turned  and 
re-patched  and  offered  for  sale  in  the  great  ba- 
zaar on  auction  day.  The  entertainment  of  the 
shopkeepers  lasts  till  sunset,  and  then  these  serene 
old  men  rouse  themselves,  step  down  from  their 
counters,  put  up  the  shutters,  and  wander  off  to 
the  cafe,  to  digest  the  news  of  the  day  over  tho 
bubbling,  the  bewitching  nargileh. 

The  bazaars  after  dark  are  as  silent  and  as 
solemn  as  the  tombs  of  the  kings  on  the  desert 
yonder.  I know  a wild  bazaar  within  whose  fra- 
grant recesses  lodge  all  the  glories  of  the  East. 
The  spotted  skins  of  leopards,  as  soft  as  satin  and 
as  sweet  as  musk,  swing  in  the  open  door.  On 
heaps  of  rugs,  his  turban  fallen  among  stuffed 
lizards  and  chameleons,  his  arm  thrown  over  the 
dull  scales  of  a stark  crocodile,  and  his  feet  in  a 
bed  of  Indian  shells,  sleeps  the  royal  merchant. 
I can  not  enter  his  treasure-house,  for  there  is  only 


94 


MASHALLAH ! 


room  for  one,  but  I can  tarry  while  be  sleeps  and 
feast  my  eyes  on  such  stuff  as  dreams  are  made  of 
— gourds  full  of  scarabsei,  and  strings  of  ostrich 
eggs  ; some  of  these  eggs  are  tattooed  by  cunning 
hands,  and  hang,  like  curious  lamps  of  alabaster, 
suspended  from  the  roof.  There  are  musical  in- 
struments of  quaint  form  and  quainter  voice,  in- 
laid with  pearl  and  ivory  : the  poet’s  lute,  to 
whose  monotonous  thrumming  the  improvisator 
breathes  forth  his  sweet  romances  ; the  darabuk- 
keli  drum  ; the  tar,  with  its  broad  hoop  set  thick 
with  jingling  platters  ; the  sagat  that  clash  in  the 
skillful  fingers  of  the  dancing  sozeeyehs.  Pipe- 
bowls  of  painted  clay,  with  stems  a man’s  length, 
and  mouthpieces  whereon  half  the  wealth  of  the 
happy  smokers  is  expended  ; great  globes  of  price- 
less amber,  set  with  jewels  and  hooped  with  gold — 
it  is  thus  that  the  cool  incense  of  the  latakia  ap- 
proaches the  lips  of  him  who  gives  his  soul  to 
peace  and  the  extreme  delight  of  the  chibouk. 
The  dark  girdles  of  thongs,  such  as  the  Indian 
maids  delight  in,  tufts  of  ostrich  plumes,  bows 
and  arrows  from  Abyssinia,  and  carved  cocoanuts 
from  the  groves  beyond  the  desert — there  is  no- 
thing to  be  thought  of  in  the  marvelous  pages  of 
the  “Arabian  Nights,”  nothing  pretty,  or  pecul- 
iar, or  portable  from  the  shores  that  front  the  Bay 
of  Biscay  to  the  extreme  borders  of  Bagdad,  but 
it,  or  a shadow  of  it,  is  tumbled  into  this  little 
room  in  bewildering  confusion.  But  the  old  fel- 


THE  BATHS  AXD  THE  BAZAARS. 


95 


low  begins  to  waken ; let  us  be  off,  or  be  will 
overcome  ns  with  an  inexhaustible  catalogue  of 
his  wares. 

The  safest  plan  is  to  go  from  the  bazaars  to 
the  baths.  Sometimes  you  are  obliged  to  seek 
relief  in  suds  and  hot  water,  for  the  bazaars  are 
unfortunately  over-populated,  and  your  presence 
there  is  pretty  sure  to  suggest  emigration  to  the 
least  desirable  members  of  the  community.  Goad- 
ed on  by  an  itching  desire  for  change,  I direct  Ali 
to  hasten  to  the  bath.  Ali  knows  all  about  it,  and 
orders  me  to  dismount  presently  at  a door  that  is 
by  no  means  inviting.  The  donkey  stands  un- 
hitched where  we  leave  him.  He  would  stand  till 
doomsday  if  Ali  should  forget  to  resume  charge 
of  him.  We  thread  a black  passage  that  is  full  of 
dust  and  cobwebs,  and  turn  suddenly  into  a room 
paved  with  marble,  walled  with  marble,  and  domed 
with  white  stone  that  might  as  well  have  been 
marble  also.  In  the  center  of  the  room — a large 
square  one — gushes  a fountain.  The  dome  is  per- 
forated with  star-shaped  windows,  sunk  deep  in  the 
white  and  semi-transparent  partitions  that  sepa- 
rate one  from  the  other — a kind  of  alabaster 
honeycomb,  with  all  the  tints  of  the  rainbow 
streaming  through  it  upon  the  plashing  fountain 
below.  Ali  turns  me  over  into  the  hands  of  a 
half-naked  attendant,  and  I am  at  once  conducted 
up  three  steps  into  an  alcove  where  several  couches, 
standing  side  by  side,  remind  me  of  a hospital. 


96 


MASH  ALL  All ! 


On  one  of  these  is  a Turk  in  the  final  agonies  of 
disrobing.  On  the  next  a Greek  has  passed  from 
this  sorrowful  world  into  a deep  dream  of  some- 
thing or  other.  My  third  companion  is  apparently 
just  recovering  from  the  ravages  of  the  bath,  and 
is  taking  the  nargileh  in  mild  doses  every  few 
moments.  He  seems  to  he  doing  well,  and  I am 
encouraged  to  proceed  with  my  hath.  Swathed  in 
numerous  towels,  sheets,  pillow-cases,  etc.,  poised 
on  wooden  sandals,  with  very  tall  legs  under  them, 
I am  led  from  one  chamber  to  another,  from  tepid 
air  into  an  atmosphere  that  sticks  in  my  throat 
and  weighs  upon  my  chest  and  burns  me  so  that 
I faint  and  grow  nervous,  and  fall  into  the  arms  of 
the  attendant,  who  dashes  cold  water  in  my  face 
and  smiles  his  soft,  persuasive,  sleepy  Oriental 
smile.  He  rubs  me  down  in  a small  marble  cell 
filled  with  a rosy  light,  and  currycombs  me  with 
harsh  bundles  of  date-leaf  fibers.  He  twists  me 
in  postures  that  are  as  painful  as  they  are  undig- 
nified, and  then  leaves  me  to  recover.  Enter  a 
second  slave  with  soap  and  water.  I am  smoth- 
ered in  suds  that  blind  me  and  fill  my  nose  and 
mouth,  soused  from  head  to  foot,  buried  an  inch 
deep  in  soapy  foam,  and  again  left  to  get  out  of  it 
the  best  way  I can.  Deserted  in  that  slimy  place, 
I find  my  way  to  a fountain  in  the  corner  of  the 
room,  and  gradually  come  to  the  light  of  day  once 
more.  Then  I am  swathed  in  more  sheeting  and 
given  back  into  the  hospital  ward,  where  the  fresh 


THE  BATHS  AND  THE  BAZAARS. 


97 


air  makes  me  drunk  with  delight.  All  this  while 
young  Ali  keeps  his  eyes  on  me  and  speaks  a few 
words  of  encouragement.  A slave  brings  a deli- 
cious sherbet  chilled  with  snow.  I know  the 
physical  joys  of  the  paradise  these  Moslems  are 
waiting  for ; coffee  soon  follows,  a mere  mouth- 
ful, but  enough  for  a sensation.  From  time  to 
time,  as  I lie  at  length  on  this  couch  of  ease,  I 
drop  into  dreams  that  are  somehow  never  out  of 
hearing  of  the  plash  of  the  fountain  under  the 
dome,  never  out  of  sight  of  a window  that  opens 
upon  a rose  garden  and  admits  the  breath  of  the 
fairest  of  flowers.  Some  one  wakes  me  to  unroll 
my  wrappers  and  to  roll  me  again  in  wrappings, 
fresh  and  dry.  Then  I feel  the  stem  of  the  nar- 
gileh  creeping  to  my  lips,  and  with  monstrous 
sighs  I inhale  the  fragrance  of  the  bubbling  pipe. 
Ali  must  have  grown  hungry  at  last,  for  he  it  was 
who  urged  me  to  resume  the  duties  of  life,  and 
with  the  aid  of  an  attendant  or  two  I did  it.  The 
barber  brushed  me,  the  boy  of  the  bath  brought 
me  a rose  that  was  a little  overblown,  and  dusted 
me  vaguely,  as  if  it  were  a matter  of  little  mo- 
ment, which  it  was,  and  then  I went  back  into 
the  world  feeling  lighter  every  way — in  heart,  in 
head,  and  pocket.  Every  soul  in  that  blessed  bath 
had  to  have  his  separate  fee  and  his  separate  frown 
at  the  size  of  it. 


7 


98 


MASHALLAH ! 


X. 

MOSQUES  AHD  KIOSQUES. 

There  are  lour  hundred  mosques  in  Cairo. 
None  of  these  are  ever  filled,  unless  it  be  the  Az’- 
har,  or  “splendid”  mosque,  which  is  the  great 
Oriental  University.  But  you  seldom  enter  any 
of  them  without  finding  a few  intent  worshipers 
with  their  faces  turned  to  Mecca  as  they  rise  or 
kneel  or  bow  their  foreheads  to  the  pavement  over 
and  over  again.  These  mosques  are  never  repaired. 
Once  dedicated  to  Allah,  they  are  frequented 
so  long  as  they  are  tenable,  and  then  they  are 
suffered  to  crumble  away,  for  it  is  the  will  of  God, 
and  no  Moslem  ever  dreams  of  opposing  that. 
A few  years  ago  the  foreigner  was  not  admitted 
to  the  mosques  of  Cairo.  He  was  not  even  per- 
mitted to  pass  in  front  of  some  of  them.  With 
an  order  from  his  consulate,  he  may  now  enter 
and  explore  any  part  of  them,  and  the  Christian- 
haters  will  not  scorn  to  receive  a fee  from  him  at 
the  door  ; in  fact,  this  is  expected  in  every  case. 

The  mosque  that  is  found  in  every  street  of  the 
city,  in  every  block  almost,  and  certainly  much 
oftener  than  there  is  any  excuse  for,  is  usually  a 
very  plain  stone  building,  painted  without  in 
broad  alternate  bands  of  red  and  white.  There 
are  seldom  any  windows  visible,  though  some- 


MOSQUES  AND  KIOSQUES. 


99 


times  you  chance  upon  an  opening  in  the  'wall, 
through  whose  heavy  iron  grating  you  catch  a 
glimpse  of  the  cool,  shadow-filled  cloisters  with- 
in, where  the  faithful  are  at  prayer.  The  first 
court  of  the  mosque  is  apt  to  be  flooded  with  sun- 
shine, a very  furnace  in  the  heat  of  summer. 
Even  the  fountain  in  the  center  of  this  court, 
where  those  who  go  to  prayer  must  first  bathe, 
inasmuch  as  it  is  a cistern  of  still  and  not  always 
very  fresh  water,  can  not  temper  the  heat  that  is 
reflected  from  the  marble  pavement  in  the  narrow 
and  almost  shadowless  cloisters  on  the  three  sides 
of  the  court.  The  fourth  side  forms  the  front 
of  the  mosque  proper ; there  you  put  off  your 
shoes,  unless  you  have  an  extra  pair  to  slip  on 
over  those  you  chance  to  be  in,  for  no  one  is  per- 
mitted to  cross  that  threshold  without  first  shak- 
ing the  dust  of  the  wicked  world  from  his  feet. 

There  are  mosques  domed  over  with  alabaster, 
embroidered  with  verses  from  the  Koran,  wrought 
in  great  letters  of  gold ; hung  with  a thousand 
lamps  and  ostrich  eggs  and  long  tassels  of  silk ; 
carpeted  with  soft  rugs  wherein  only  the  richest 
colors  are  woven,  a feast  for  the  eyes  and  a lux- 
ury for  the  feet  of  those  who  have  put  off  their 
boots,  and  are  wandering  about  in  their  stockings. 
But  too  often  these  mosques  are  as  bare  as  a barn. 
Many  of  them  have  glaring  white  walls,  unrelieved 
by  any  ornamentation  whatever,  for  the  Moslem  is 
forbidden  to  make  any  likeness  of  anything  that 


100 


HASIIALLAH ! 


is  in  heaven  above  or  in  the  earth  beneath  or  in 
the  waters  under  the  earth,  and  he  obeys  orders 
to  the  letter.  There  are  mosques  without  domes, 
open  to  the  sun  like  the  outer  court,  and  having 
scarcely  shade  enough  in  them  to  admit  even  a 
short  prayer ; hut  it  does  not  matter  much  to 
the  Arab  who  drops  down  alone  in  the  desert  at 
high  noon  and  buries  his  face  in  the  sand  for  the 
sake  of  Mohammed  and  all  the  saints  in  the  cal- 
endar from  Noah  up  to  date.  There  is  a niche  in 
the  wall  toward  Mecca,  an  empty  niche  that 
looks  as  if  it  ought  to  have  a statue  in  it.  On 
the  right  of  the  niche  is  the  high  pulpit,  with 
stairs  leading  up  to  it,  and  a gate  at  the  foot  of 
the  stairs.  On  the  opposite  side  of  the  mosque 
is  a platform  on  columns ; near  it  are  tables 
from  which  the  Koran  is  read  to  the  people  and 
expounded  by  priests  sitting  on  very  plump 
feather  beds. 

There  are  two  mosques  in  Cairo  standing  un- 
der the  very  shadow  of  the  high  cliffs  where  the 
citadel  and  the  alabaster  mosque  of  Mohammed 
Ali  are  lifted  up  to  the  sky.  These  two  grand 
mosques,  fronting  on  a narrow,  dingy  Egyp- 
tian street,  and  facing  one  another,  mark  the 
beginning  and  the  end  of  the  history  of  Mo- 
hammedan holy  houses.  The  mosque  of  Sultan 
Hassan,  the  finest  in  all  Cairo,  was  built  of  blocks 
brought  from  the  Pyramids.  For  three  years 
three  thousand  dollars  a day  were  expended  on  it. 


MOSQUES  AND  KIOSQUES. 


101 


and  when  it  was  at  last  completed,  hung  with 
splendid  lamps,  its  pavements  swept  continually 
by  the  robes  of  the  worshipers,  and  the  tomb  of 
the  sultan  within  the  same  inclosure,  an  object 
of  veneration,  the  mosque  must  have  been  the 
glory  of  the  city.  From  that  hour,  A.  D.  1357,  it 
has  been  left  to  its  fate.  So  long  as  one  stone 
stands  upon  another  it  will  he  visited  by  the  prayer- 
ful Moslems,  but  not  a hand  has  been  put  forth  to 
save  it  in  all  these  years  of  slow  but  sure  decay. 
I passed  in  under  the  lofty  portico.  Dust  and 
sand  lay  in  deep  drifts  along  the  broken  pave- 
ment. A few  beggars  that  slept  on  the  thresh- 
old seemed  the  last  of  their  race,  and  were  too 
lazy  or  too  sleepy  to  notice  me.  At  the  entrance 
to  the  mosque  my  explorations  were  suspended 
for  a moment.  A great  beam  of  wood  lay  across 
the  passage.  Two  or  three  pairs  of  ragged  canvas 
slippers,  of  immense  size  and  as  filthy  as  possible, 
reminded  me  that  my  unholy  feet  were  forbidden 
to  enter  the  mosque  in  Christian  boots.  There 
was  no  need  of  entering.  I saw  all  its  splendid 
desolation  where  I stood — its  four  lofty  half 
domes  on  the  four  sides  of  the  court,  each  arch- 
ing toward  the  great  fountain  in  the  center  of  the 
court ; its  hundreds  of  chains  that  hung  from 
the  ai'ches  and  once  suspended  the  twinkling 
lamps  that  made  beautiful  the  bare-walled,  un- 
furnished mosques.  Most  of  the  lamps  have 
dropped  from  the  chains,  and  the  remaining  links 


102 


MASHALLAH  ! 


are  rusting  away,  so  that  the  chains  are  of  differ- 
ent lengths  as  they  slowly  vibrate  in  the  wind 
that  swoops  in  through  the  open  roof  between 
the  half  domes.  Clouds  of  pigeons  hover  in  the 
recesses  of  the  building  and  nestle  in  the  cluster- 
ing niches  that  hang  like  a broken  honeycomb  at 
the  point  of  every  arch.  Dust  everywhere  and 
grass  and  long  weeds  ; vines  creeping  out  of  the 
cracks  in  the  high  walls  that  are  getting  ready  to 
fall ; and  when  they  fall  the  tomb  of  the  Sultan 
will  he  buried  out  of  sight  in  one  of  the  glorious 
ruins  of  the  East,  I thought  I was  alone  in  the 
crumbling  mosque,  but  a shadow  stole  out  of  the 
deeper  shadow  in  a far  corner  and  approached  me. 
I was  invited  into  a pair  of  the  public  slippers, 
putting  them  on  over  my  boots,  and  the  pigeons 
rushed  up  into  the  sky  with  a roar  of  wings  as  we 
woke  the  echoes  in  the  lonely  place.  Another 
shadow  approached,  a begging  shadow,  that  had 
come  to  a realizing  sense  of  my  presence,  and  he 
was  literally  my  shadow  until  I stole  out  of  the 
place  filled  with  a kind  of  sentimental  awe. 

Across  the  street  rise  the  walls  of  the  mosque 
that  is  now  being  erected  by  the  Khedive,  to  bear 
the  name  of  his  mother  and  to  hold  at  last  his 
dust,  and  the  dust  of  his  sons  and  his  favorite 
wives,  and  an  assortment  of  daughters  perhaps, 
though  girls  don’t  seem  to  come  to  the  surface  in 
his  family.  The  new  mosque  is  prim  and  fresh  and 
highly  respectable,  and  very  expensive,  and  will 


MOSQUES  AND  KIOSQUES. 


103 


probably  stand  to  see  the  day  when  the  sands  of 
the  desert  shall  have  fallen  out  of  the  wind  like 
dry  rain  on  the  prostrate  and  desolated  ruin  of  its 
rival.  Eival  ? Heaven  forbid  ! All  that  is  love- 
ly in  subdued  and  harmonious  color  ; all  that  is 
beautiful,  with  the  fatal  beauty  of  decay  ; all  that 
is  impressive,  and  pathetic,  and  poetical  in  Cairo, 
perishes  in  the  fall  of  the  mosque  of  Sultan  Has- 
san.  The  venerable  mosque  of  Tooloon,  with  its 
court  of  columns,  its  great  minaret  with  a wind- 
ing stair  on  the  outer  wall  of  it — the  cornice  of 
that  staircase  was  of  amber — its  horseshoe  arches 
and  its  Saracenic  ornamentation,  has  also  a mar- 
velous tradition  associated  with  its  site.  By  the 
nebk  tree  in  the  court  of  the  mosque  is  the  very 
spot  where  Noah’s  ark  stranded.  But  what  a lit- 
tle Ararat  it  was  for  so  great  a flood  ! 

The  Az’-har,  the  “splendid”  mosque,  the  fa- 
mous university  of  the  Orient,  is  one  of  the  wonders 
of  Cairo.  Imagine  an  immense  court  surrounded 
by  four  hundred  columns  of  porphyry,  marble, 
and  granite  taken  from  the  ancient  temples  of 
Egypt.  On  the  Mecca  side  of  the  court  is  the 
place  of  prayer ; the  other  three  sides  are  parti- 
tioned off,  and  allotted  to  students  from  various 
parts  of  the  East.  There  is  a separate  apartment 
allotted  to  each  province,  and  a library  for  the 
use  of  the  students  is  in  each  apartment.  The 
students  live  here,  sleep  under  the  portico — such 
as  are  not  residents  of  Cairo — study  in  the  schools. 


104 


MASHALLAH ! 


and  recite  to  the  master  at  the  foot  of  one  of  the 
columns.  Knowledge  is  difficult  in  the  Az’-har. 
Mohammed  Ali  deprived  the  university  of  its 
properties,  and  now  not  one  of  the  three  hundred 
and  fourteen  professors  receives  a farthing  for 
his  salary,  but  is  obliged  to  make  his  living  by 
private  teaching,  book-copying,  etc.  The  ten 
thousand  students  pay  nothing  for  their  instruc- 
tion, but  hoard  themselves  and  make  what  they 
can  by  writing  letters  for  the  illiterate,  receiving 
whatever  is  offered  them  in  charity,  and  going 
hungry  the  rest  of  the  time.  There  are  students 
from  every  part  of  the  East,  ten  thousand  of 
them,  all  studying  out  loud,  all  squatting  on  the 
pavement  in  swarms,  that  thicken  around  each  of 
the  columns,  where  the  professor,  with  stick  in 
hand  and  within  hearing  distance  of  a half  a dozen 
other  professors,  manages  to  pick  out  the  right 
answers  to  their  questions  from  the  perpetual 
thunder  of  those  ten  thousand  voices.  The  uni- 
versity is  a power  in  the  land,  and  while  it  is  op- 
posed to  the  fanaticism  of  the  people,  and  even 
ridicules  many  of  the  barbarous  practices  of  the 
dervishes,  the  students  with  one  accord  despise 
the  dog  of  a Christian  who  looks  in  upon  them 
with  the  assistance  of  an  armed  officer  of  the 
police,  without  whose  aid  it  would  he  impossible 
to  enter  the  Az’-har,  and  unsafe  to  attempt  it 
alone.  Three  hundred  blind  men  are  housed 
and  fed  in  a neighboring  chapel  from  funds  he- 


MOSQUES  AND  KIOSQUES. 


105 


queathed  for  the  purpose.  These  three  hundred 
blind  men  quarrel  incessantly,  beat  one  another 
■with  sticks,  and  lift  their  scornful  noses  in  the 
endeavor  to  smell  out  a Christian.  When  they 
discover  that  one  is  present,  their  rage  is  as  ludi- 
crous as  it  is  fruitless,  for  they  know  not  where 
to  strike  at  the  head  of  the  unbeliever,  and  so 
they  beat  the  air  in  their  fury  and  howl  like 
wild  beasts.  You  wander  among  the  stately 
tombs  of  the  Caliphs  and  the  Mamelukes,  domed 
chambers  with  sculptured  sarcophagi  arranged  in 
rows,  and  covered  with  faded  and  dusty  canopies 
of  satin  and  gold.  Soft  carpets  are  under  foot  be- 
tween the  tombs,  so  that  the  tombs  look  like  some 
sort  of  quaint  furniture  in  a living-room  ; lamps 
overhead  and  divans  to  recline  on — everything  as 
cozy  as  possible,  but  over  all  hangs  the  deepest 
shadow  of  death.  Why  should  it  not  be  so  in  a 
country  where  they  have  been  dying  for  so  many 
thousands  of  years  ! 

Very  much  might  be  written  of  the  charming 
suburbs  of  Cairo.  Heliopolis,  with  its  solitary 
obelisk  standing  in  a green  meadow,  the  only 
surviving  monument  of  the  once  famous  city  and 
the  oldest  obelisk  in  Egypt.  Moses  studied  there  ! 
There  also  is  the  sycamore  tree  in  whose  shade 
the  Holy  Family  reposed  during  their  flight  into 
Egypt,  and  close  at  hand  is  the  fountain  where 
the  Blessed  Virgin  washed  the  swaddling-clothes 
of  the  Blessed  Infant.  At  the  island  of  Roda 


106 


MASH  ALT,  AH  ! 


you  are  led  to  the  spot  where  the  rush -cradle 
of  the  baby  Moses  was  rocked  in  the  Nile  waves  ; 
hut  somehow  it  is  hard  to  convince  one’s  self  of 
the  truth  of  these  traditions,  ancient  and  respect- 
able as  they  are  for  the  most  part. 

There  is  no  doubt  about  the  palaces  of  the 
Khedive  ; they  spring  up  everywhere,  and  one  is 
more  ugly  than  another.  An  exception  may  per- 
haps be  made  in  favor  of  Sezureh,  on  an  island 
opposite  Cairo.  Extensive  suits  of  chambers  were 
lined  with  deep-blue  satin,  quilted  on  the  walls, 
and  folded  in  exquisite  patterns  on  the  ceiling, 
for  the  use  of  the  Empress  Eugenie  when  she 
visited  the  Khedive  at  the  opening  of  the  Suez 
Canal.  Later  the  Emperor  of  Austria  and  the 
Prince  and  Princess  of  Wales  were  entertained  in 
the  same  palace.  But  for  the  luxurious  twilight 
of  the  rooms,  the  soft  satin  hangings,  and  the  gar- 
dens of  bamboos  and  palms  that  steal  up  to  the 
windows  and  make  music  in  their  branches,  the 
palace  presents  no  novelty.  Much  of  its  furni- 
ture was  exhibited  at  the  Paris  Exposition  of  1867, 
and  it  looks  like  exhibition  furniture,  rather 
theatrical.  There  is  a kiosque  in  the  garden,  a 
wilderness  of  graceful  pillars  and  Alhambra  arches 
that  are  reflected  in  the  waters  of  a small  lake 
that  washes  its  marble  terrace.  The  apartments 
adjoining  are  sumptuous  revelations  of  Eastern 
life.  Gorgeous  in  color,  voluptuous  in  design, 
you  wander  in  delight  from  one  hall  of  rainbows 


MOSQUES  AND  KIOSQUES. 


107 


to  another  till  you  are  satiated  with  color,  and 
then  you  reach  the  alabaster  temple  of  the  bath, 
filled  with  a soft  rosy  light  that  tinges  the  per- 
fumed fountain  like  wine.  In  this  royal  kiosque 
the  screech  of  the  hyena  and  the  hoarse  growl  of 
the  enraged  tiger  fall  lightly  upon  the  ear.  It  is 
pleasant  to  bury  yourself  in  a billowy  sea  of 
lemon-colored  silk  crusted  with  gold  and  break- 
ing along  the  Persian  carpet  in  golden  fringes  a 
yard  deep,  and  to  hear  the  wild  snort  of  the  rhi- 
noceros and  the  shriek  of  the  birds  of  prey,  but 
all  the  while  to  know  that  they  are  bolted  fast 
in  their  respective  dungeons  beyond  the  bamboo 
jungles. 

There  is  a garden  at  Shoobra,  where  the  cit- 
rons lie  in  golden  profusion  under  the  deep  shade 
of  the  trees.  At  one  end  of  this  fragrant  for- 
est is  a kiosque,  a cloister  that  incloses  a lake 
and  a fountain.  The  marble  shore  of  the  lake 
is  curiously  carved  ; you  would  think  that  every 
sort  of  living  thing  had  crept  out  of  the  still 
water  to  sun  itself  at  low  tide.  Lily-pads  bask 
on  the  oily  surface  of  the  lake,  shining  crystal 
globes  hang  in  the  cloisters,  and  at  the  four 
corners  of  the  kiosque  are  four  retiring  rooms, 
such  as  might  cast  a glamour  over  any  sin  and 
woo  the  most  wakeful  to  repose.  All  this  plea- 
sure-house is  withered  like  a flower  that  has 
served  its  end  and  been  cast  aside.  At  the  other 
side  of  the  garden  is  a hillock  covered  with  spicy 


108 


MASHALLAH ! 


trees.  A muddy  stream  has  been  taught  to  make 
an  island  of  the  place.  You  cross  a bridge  that 
sinks  under  you  treacherously ; you  ascend  the 
marble  stairs  that  are  cushioned  with  moss  ; you 
pass  entirely  around  a small  palace  in  the  perpet- 
ual dusk  of  its  broad,  semi-curtained  veranda. 
The  doors  and  windows  are  bolted  securely ; 
through  the  worm-eaten  shutters  you  peer  into 
the  mysterious  shadows  that  envelop  and  nearly 
absorb  every  object.  Here  is  a dream  of  Oriental 
luxury,  but  a dream  that  would  come  to  an  end 
suddenly  enough  if  the  light  of  day  were  let  into 
that  deserted  hall.  The  aquaria  are  all  dry  and 
half  full  of  dust  and  sand  ; the  painted  lanterns 
are  broken  ; the  moth-eaten  drapery  hangs  in 
ribbons  from  the  heavy  cornice,  a thousand  liz- 
ards and  black  creeping  things  dart  out  from 
under  your  feet  at  every  step  ; the  very  sound  of 
your  footstep  grows  oppressive,  and,  when  you 
stumble  upon  a green  snake  lying  in  an  unwhole- 
some coil  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  you  shudder 
and  retreat.  It  is  the  palace  of  the  Sleeping 
Beauty  ; but  no  prince  in  the  flesh  shall  break  the 
spell  of  her  enchantment.  Probably  the  guards 
fly  to  you  at  this  moment — they  did  to  me,  and 
politely  begged  that  I would  withdraw  immedi- 
ately, as  the  harem  had  arrived  and  the  gardens 
must  be  emptied.  Swarms  of  eunuchs  scoured 
the  place,  and  not  a shady  bower  but  was  probed 
with  slender  canes  to  see  if  it  were  defiled  by  the 


THE  PYRAMIDS. 


109 


profane  presence  of  man.  I heard  light  laughter, 
and  saw  through  the  bended  houghs  the  white 
mask  and  the  gazelle  eyes  of  those  pampered 
slaves  of  lust.  Behold  the  soiled  beauties  of  the 
harem,  let  loose  for  an  hour  to  sport  in  the  melan- 
choly gardens  of  the  East ! 


XI. 

THE  PYRAMIDS. 

The  day  of  pilgrimage  is  about  over.  A half- 
dozen  years  ago  the  Pyramids  of  Gheezeh  were 
approached  by  a winding  trail  that  led  through 
marshes  and  across  a branch  of  the  Nile.  You 
were  obliged  to  go  out  by  donkey,  for  only  a 
donkey  could  have  made  his  way  in  safety  along 
the  slippery  margins  of  the  standing  water  pools 
left  by  the  inundation.  You  were  at  times  driven 
to  boats,  and  had  “numerous  ventures  by  flood 
and  field  ” before  you  came  at  last  to  the  pyramid 
platform,  and  sank  down  in  the  shadow  of  Che- 
ops to  contemplate  nature.  But  now ! Your 
dragoman  calls  you  in  the  cool  of  the  morning. 
Coffee  and  rolls  await  you  in  the  breakfast-room. 
A carriage  and  span  with  a champagne  luncheon 
secreted  under  the  seat  is  at  the  door.  You  light 
your  cigar,  sink  back  in  the  luxurious  cushions, 
roll  swiftly  over  a splendid  macadamized  road  that 


110 


MASHALLAH ! 


is  built  above  high-water  mark  and  threads  an 
avenue  shaded  by  trees,  leap  all  the  streams  with 
the  aid  of  excellent  bridges,  and  in  one  hour  and 
a half  are  set  down  at  the  foot  of  the  steep  ascent, 
only  ten  minutes  walk  from  the  Great  Pyramid  I 
For  a long  way  out  of  Cairo,  so  long  as  the  land 
feels  the  pulse  of  the  life-bestowing  Nile,  your 
eye  feasts  upon  the  deliciously  green  meadows 
where  the  ibises  in  the  distance  shine  like  snow- 
flakes. Groves  of  palm  are  scattered  along  the 
horizon,  the  road  winds  through  the  edges  of 
some  of  these  groves,  and  from  the  mud  huts  of 
the  fellaheen  swarms  of  half-naked  children  buzz 
after  you  like  bees.  It  is  always  the  same  cry 
of  “Backsheesh,”  but  the  ear  gets  accustomed 
to  it,  and  Egypt  would  be  intolerably  lonesome 
but  for  the  hum  of  her  two  million  slaves. 

The  business  of  climbing  Cheops  is  begun  as 
early  in  the  day  as  possible  ; not  that  it  is  a long 
or  a difficult  task,  but  because  the  sun  pours  his 
hottest  beams  in  a baptism  of  fire  over  the  desert, 
and  there  is  no  shade,  no  breath  of  fresh  and  fra- 
grant air,  no  cooling  draught  at  hand.  You  alight 
at  the  base  of  Cheops  and  are  immediately  be- 
sieged by  an  army  of  Bedawees,  who  are  famous 
bores.  For  more  than  forty  centuries  these  Be- 
dawees have  besieged  the  pyramid-climbers  from 
every  quarter  of  the  earth  ; they  have  a smatter- 
ing of  all  languages  at  their  tongue’s  end,  and 
their  hands  are  filled  with  old  coins  and  new  sea- 


THE  PYRAMIDS. 


Ill 


rabaei,  which  they  swear  are  old.  The  sheik  is 
your  only  hope  ; every  village,  every  community, 
has  its  sheik,  and  his  word  is  law.  Purchase  his 
friendship — you  can  do  it  with  a couple  of  francs 
— and  you  are  perfectly  safe.  He  orders  three  of 
his  “ howling  savages  ” to  take  you  in  hand,  and 
conduct  you  to  the  summit  of  Cheops.  Accord- 
ing to  the  agreement  with  the  sheik,  you  were  to 
pay  so  much  into  his  hands  upon  your  return  to 
earth,  after  having  reposed  as  long  as  you  think 
fit  at  the  top  of  the  pyramid.  Meanwhile  no  fee 
is  to  be  given  to  the  three  fierce  and  athletic  fel- 
lows who  help  you  up  and  down,  nor  are  they  to 
ask  for  any,  on  pain  of  the  bastinado,  in  case  any 
complaint  is  made  against  them.  This  being 
considered  satisfactory  by  all  parties  concerned, 
you  are  seized  under  the  arms  by  two  of  the  Be- 
dawees,  while  the  third  gives  you  a gentle  poke  in 
the  small  of  the  back  from  time  to  time.  Once 
started  on  this  novel  ascent,  it  is  quite  impossible 
to  abandon  it  before  it  is  completed  to  the  let- 
ter. You  may  repent  and  grow  dizzy  and  short- 
winded,  but  the  strong  grip  on  your  arms  brings 
you  to  your  feet  again,  and  you  are  swung  up 
from  one  terrace  to  another,  hurried  to  the  right 
and  to  the  left  by  a zigzag  trail  that  has  evident- 
ly been  searching  for  low  steps  and  crevices  in 
the  stones,  and  found  them  in  many  cases.  Each 
stone  is  about  the  height  of  a table ; it  is  four 
hundred  and  sixty  perpendicular  feet  to  the  top 


112 


MASHALLAH ! 


of  the  pyramid,  and  you  are  permitted  to  rest 
about  three  times  on  the  way  up. 

At  first  the  Bedawee  touches  your  right  arm, 
and  asks  you  if  you  would  like  to  rest.  You  scorn 
the  idea,  and  leap  like  a chamois  from  rock  to  rock, 
to  show  him  how  very  far  you  are  from  feeling  fa- 
tigued. He  praises  your  powers  of  endurance,  feels 
of  your  muscles,  and  says  your  legs  are  splendid. 
Y ou  realize  that  they  must  be,  for  you  have  evi- 
dently astonished  him  with  your  strength  and 
agility.  By  and  by  he  insists  upon  your  resting 
for  a moment  only.  You  rest  for  his  sake  as 
much  as  your  own,  for  you  are  a little  out  of 
breath,  and  fear  that  he,  that  all  three  of  the  attend- 
ants, must  feel  fatigued.  At  this  moment  a small 
boy  makes  his  appearance  with  a jug  of  brackish 
water  in  his  hand.  He  climbs  like  a cat,  and  is 
so  little  that  his  head  is  lost  below  the  edge  of 
each  stair  as  he  climbs  toward  you.  That  boy 
follows  you  to  the  top  and  pours  water  over  your 
head  and  hands,  and  gives  you  a drink  at  the 
slightest  provocation,  and  all  for  a half-dozen 
sous.  He  is  getting  his  muscles  in  training  for 
the  ascents  he  hopes  to  make  in  years  to  come,  for 
he  is  born  under  the  pyramid,  and  he  will  die 
under  it,  some  day,  unless  he  happens  to  breathe 
his  last  at  the  top  of  it. 

Before  you  are  quite  ready  to  start  afresh 
the  Bedawees  clutch  you,  and  you  go  hound- 
ing from  step  to  step,  sometimes  finding  foot- 


THE  PYRAMIDS. 


113 


hold  for  yourself,  but  oftener  dangling  in  mid- 
air, with  the  fellow  behind  clinging  to  you  in- 
stead of  lending  his  aid.  When  you  propose 
a second  rest,  you  are  put  off  with  the  promise 
of  one  a little  farther  up,  and  you  nearly  perish 
before  you  come  to  the  spot.  There  is  no  pride 
of  muscle,  no  ambition,  no  wind  left  in  you 
now  ! You  sink  into  a corner  of  the  rock  and 
shut  your  eyes,  for  you  have  caught  a glimpse  of 
the  sandy  sea  that  is  all  aglow  in  the  fierce  sun- 
shine ; and  away  down  at  the  foot  of  the  pyra- 
mid there  are  multitudes  of  black  objects  creep- 
ing about  like  ants,  and  you  know  these  are  men 
and  women,  and  then  you  feel  as  if  you  could  never 
get  to  the  top  of  Cheops,  and  if  you  did,  you  know 
you  could  never  get  to  the  bottom  again,  unless 
you  were  to  tumble  head  foremost  down  all  those 
frightful  stairs,  and  you  grow  faint,  and  call 
on  the  water-boy,  and  find  life  a good  deal  of  a 
bore.  You  don’t  look  dowu  after  that.  You 
hum  fragments  of  that  unforgetable  song,  with  its 
highly  moral  refrain  “ Excelsior,”  and  begin  to 
perspire  profusely,  and  to  feel  as  if  you  would 
probably  lay  your  bones  on  the  top  stair  and  give 
up  the  ghost  on  the  spot.  Eesignation  or  despair, 
you  hardly  know  which,  has  completely  cowed 
you.  When  you  rest  the  third  time  one  of  the 
Bedawees  kindly  chafes  your  legs,  straightens  out 
the  kinks  in  your  muscles,  and  says  pleasant 
things  to  you  about  the  remainder  of  the  jour- 
8 


114 


HASHALLAH  ! 


ney.  He  points  you  to  the  top,  which,  sure 
enough,  is  only  a little  farther  up,  and  you  begin 
to  wonder  if  it  will  be  large  enough  to  stand  on, 
or  if  you  will  have  to  straddle  it,  and  perhaps  roll 
down  on  the  other  side.  It  is  large  enough  to 
build  a house  on.  I ached  for  a shelter  of  some 
sort  while  I was  up  there,  and  having  looked  over 
all  the  world  of  sand,  with  the  blue  Nile  flowing 
through  it  between  shores  of  emerald  and  fields 
of  corn  and  groves  of  palm,  I was  glad  to  slide 
down  into  the  narrow  shadow  under  the  highest 
step,  and  there  rest  for  half  an  hour. 

It  was  the  place  in  which  to  dream  gorgeous 
dreams,  to  conjure  up  the  ghosts  of  the  past  and 
take  long  speculative  looks  into  the  future.  But  I 
did  none  of  these.  Some  one  was  continually  load- 
ing me  with  spurious  antiquities,  and  imploring 
me  to  purchase  at  fabulous  prices.  When  their 
prayers  were  unanswered,  and  I had  grown  weary 
of  requesting  them  to  shut  up  shop  and  retire 
from  business,  they  turned  on  me  with  threats, 
and  hinted  ever  so  darkly  that  if  I cared  to 
return  to  my  people  with  a complete  skeleton,  it 
would  be  well  for  me  to  reduce  their  stock  in 
trade  at  as  early  an  hour  as  convenient.  They 
did  drop  in  their  prices  ; justice  to  them  compels 
me  to  state  that  the  handful  of  coins  they  at  first 
offered  at  ten  francs,  they  at  last  did  not  scorn  to 
receive  six  sous  for.  We  came  to  terms,  and 
easily  enough,  for,  as  I felt  assured  of  my  safe- 


THE  PYRAMIDS. 


115 


ty,  inasmuch  as  they  were  responsible  for  it,  and 
as  there  is  in  my  eye  or  my  heart  something  that 
almost  at  once  establishes  an  unswerving  fellow- 
ship between  any  dark  skin  and  myself,  we  struck 
hands  very  shortly  and  exchanged  talismans,  and 
the  cry  of  backsheesh  died  upon  their  lips. 

To  be  sure,  that  time-honored  custom  of  the 
Bedawees,  that  confidential  confession  which  they 
make  to  every  traveler  on  his  way  down  the  pyra- 
mid, was  made  to  me.  I was  sworn  to  secrecy  of 
course,  and  then  I learned  how  the  sheik  was 
quite  a brute,  and  had  plenty  of  money  and  lots 
of  wives  ; how  there  were  too  many  pyramid-climb- 
ers for  the  good  of  the  craft,  and  how  all  the 
money  that  came  to  them  was  put  into  a general 
fund,  out  of  which  each  of  the  too  many  Beda- 
wees received  his  little  share.  Times  were  hard, 
and  they  couldn’t  eat  sand  for  ever ; would  I 
therefore  give  them  a little  before  we  came  quite 
to  the  bottom  and  say  nothing  about  it,  lest  the 
sheik’s  wrath  should  be  turned  against  them  ? I 
did  it  with  pleasure  ; they  were  good  fellows,  spite 
of  their  audacious  humbuggery.  They  were  hard- 
working, cheerful,  witty,  and  obliging  fellows,  and 
much  jollier  companions  than  the  majority  of 
tourists  one  falls  in  with  in  one’s  travels.  When 
my  legs  gave  out,  which  they  certainly  did  on 
the  way  down,  I was  lifted  bodily  from  one  step 
to  another,  and  beguiled  with  the  gossip  of  the 
desert,  and  I felt,  when  they  set  me  at  last  over 


116 


MASHALLAH ! 


my  boots  in  the  sand,  that  it  was  a blessed  thing 
to  have  been  so  near  the  sky  on  so  solid  a foun- 
dation— nearer  the  sky  than  is  the  dome  of 
St.  Paul’s  in  London,  nearer  than  St.  Peter’s  in 
Rome,  as  near  or  nearer  than  the  tower  of  Stras- 
burg  Cathedral,  the  highest  tower  in  the  world. 

Who  would  bury  himself  in  the  bowels  of  that 
tomb  of  Cheops  ? Not  I ! There  are  tombs 
enough,  and  old  temples  under  the  sand  that 
have  their  roofs  broken  open  and  know  what  fresh 
air  and  sunshine  are.  The  blackness  of  darkness 
has  been  accumulating  all  these  thousands  of  years 
in  the  breathless  hollow  of  the  pyramid,  so  that 
now  a single  sunbeam  would  be  choked  to  death 
if  it  were  possible  for  it  to  find  its  way  in  there. 
Your  Egyptian  darkness  is  bottled  up  in  these 
mummy  pits,  to  be  felt  and  written  about  by  peo- 
ple who  don’t  know  what  it  is  until  they  have 
emerged  from  an  exploration  of  the  pyramid  three 
shades  blacker  in  the  face,  and  with  their  mouths 
full  of  it.  There  was  a tent  pitched  out  in  the 
desert.  One  must  needs  go  twice  or  thrice  to  the 
Pyramids  to  grow  used  to  their  bulk  before  they 
will  duly  impress  him.  On  my  second  visit  I had 
resolved  to  see  a sunset  and  a moonrise,  both  gen- 
erously provided  by  Providence,  and  I repaired 
to  that  tent  of  the  desert  and  slept  the  sleep  of 
the  just  for  a good  part  of  the  afternoon.  I was 
awakened  in  the  white  heat  of  the  noon,  and  saw 
the  three  pyramids  trembling  and  changing  color 


THE  PYRAMIDS. 


117 


in  the  irresistible  flood  of  light  that  deluged 
them. 

The  Sphinx  lost  by  comparison,  and  in  the 
glare  of  day  I was  but  feebly  impressed  with  the 
magnitude  of  the  image  ; moreover,  the  face  is  so 
shattered  and  the  body  so  surrounded  by  sand  drifts 
that  it  is  difficult  to  get  a distinct  view  of  it.  But 
at  sunset,  when  the  sky  was  as  a rose  in  fullest 
bloom,  and  the  distant  Nile  a ribbon  of  red  gold, 
and  the  Pyramids  were  as  live  coals  fanned  with  a 
soft  breath,  and  the  Sphinx  was  flushed  with  joy, 
I felt  that  there  are  some  events  in  this  life  that 
never  grow  hackneyed,  however  often  repeated. 
This  was  one  of  them.  When  I looked  again  there 
was  a visible  change  : the  flush  went  out  of  that 
scornful  face ; the  hard  lines  were  softened,  the 
wrinkles  smoothed  away  as  the  mellow  moonlight 
fell  upon  it  over  the  vast  solitude  of  the  desert. 
It  matters  little  whether  it  be  the  image  of  man 
or  woman,  brute  or  human  ; the  eternal  mystery 
that  enshrouds  it  is  deepened,  is  hallowed,  when 
the  night  gathers  about  it,  and  all  the  stars  swim 
overhead  in  startling  brilliancy,  and  all  the  sands 
stretch  away  to  the  horizon  in  drifts  as  white  as 
snow. 

One  fact  we  are  sure  of — this  is  the  most  an- 
cient idol  of  the  East,  a type  of  the  first  face, 
and  one  that  will  endure  to  the  end  of  time,  and 
will  then  fix  its  placid  gaze  uj:>on  the  pitiful  ob- 
ject writhing  at  its  feet,  the  final  victim  of  a per- 


118 


MASIIALLAH  ! 


ishing  world.  We  know  that  those  melancholy 
eyes  looked  over  the  broad  Nile  waters  from  a 
lonely  island,  and  saw  the  hordes  of  slaves  that  for 
ten  long  years  toiled  as  the  ants  toil  until  they  had 
built  a monstrous  caravansary  that  rose  out  the 
Nile  to  the  solid  platform  of  the  island — three 
hundred  and  sixty-sis  thousand  souls  tugging  at 
the  mighty  blocks  of  stone  that  were  brought  from 
the  distant  quarries  of  Arabia,  and  then  the  great- 
er work  began.  For  twenty  years  the  army  of 
workers  heaved  the  great  stones  together,  and  at 
last  the  vanity  of  Cheops  was  satisfied,  and  he  died 
and  was  embalmed  and  laid  away  in  the  heart  of 
his  pyramid.  Cephren  followed  in  the  footsteps 
of  Cheops,  and  his  monument  was  a mountain. 
Then  Mycerinus,  the  son  of  Cheops,  ascended  the 
throne,  and  the  third  pyramid  towered  above  the 
desert.  He  was  a mummy  before  its  completion, 
but  to-day  it  is  the  completest  of  the  three.  This 
Sphinx  could  tell  us  if  it  be  truly  the  tomb  of 
Mycerinus,  or  if  the  lovers  of  the  fair  but  frail 
Rhodopis,  whom  Sappho  calls  Doricha,  reared  this 
royal  sepulchre  for  her  unhallowed  manes  ; or  yet 
if  that  fair  virgin  who  was  bathing  in  the  Nile 
when  an  eagle  swooped  upon  one  of  her  sandals 
and  flew  away  to  drop  it  in  the  lap  of  the  King  as 
he  sat  at  judgment  was  really  the  first  Cinderella  ; 
for  the  King  was  so  charmed  with  the  diminutive- 
ness of  that  sandal  that  he  caused  the  country  to 
be  scoured  in  search  of  its  owner,  and  he  shared 


MEMPHIS  AND  SAKKARAH. 


119 


his  throne  with  her  and  built  her  a pyramid  for 
ever.  In  those  days  this  haggard  face  was  comely, 
with  rose  tints  upon  the  cheeks  and  a royal  hel- 
met upon  the  head.  There  was  an  altar  beneath 
the  heart  of  it,  and  the  incense  from  that  altar 
curled  over  the  breast  that  is  now  buried  in  sand, 
and  ascended  to  the  nostrils  that  have  crumbled 
away,  and  the  swarms  of  slaves  passed  to  and  fro 
under  the  grateful  shadow  of  the  drooping  wings. 
Pale  in  the  moonlight,  the  proud  head  lifted  to 
the  stars  that  shine  for  ever  in  those  latitudes,  the 
sad  face  turned  away  from  the  mountains  of  stone 
that  have  grown  up  beside  her.  Ah  ! if  the  lips 
would  but  break  their  eternal  silence,  and  reveal 
to  us  by  what  almost  superhuman  power  the  Pyra- 
mids were  piled  up  into  the  sky  ! But  no  ! she 
is  a woman,  and  she  will  never  tell. 


XII. 

MEMPHIS  AND  SAKKARAH. 

All  night  the  Sphinx  kept  silent  watch  over 
our  sleepless  camp.  Again  and  again  we  stole 
into  our  tent  and  wrestled  with  the  Angel  of  Sleep, 
but  grew  only  the  more  wakeful  in  consequence 
of  our  exertions.  Again  and  again  we  went  forth 
into  the  desert  and  strode  noiselessly  to  the  base 
of  the  great  solemn  image,  and  felt  the  majesty  of 


120 


MASHALLAH ! 


its  presence,  and  began  to  picture  in  the  moonlight 
the  splendid  pageants  of  the  past.  The  Pyramids 
rose,  stone  by  stone,  above  the  wind-swept  plains, 
and  the  great  army  of  toiling  slaves  crowded  about 
us  so  densely  that  at  last,  overwhelmed,  we  re- 
turned to  camp  and  stirred  the  fire  into  swift-leap- 
ing flames — for  the  dawn  was  chiliy-r-and  lit  our 
pipes,  and  talked  of  the  pilgrimage  to  Memphis 
and  Sakkarah.  Perhaps  it  was  the  moonlight 
that  quickened  our  imaginations  and  made  that 
night  under  the  shadow  of  the  Pyramids  memor- 
able ; perhaps  it  was  our  deep  bowls  of  Turkish 
tobacco  whose  incense  curled  about  our  camp  a 
great  part  of  the  night ; perhaps  it  was  the  mar- 
velous, the  bewitching  atmosphere  of  Egypt,  that 
is  spicy  and  invigorating,  and  fraught  with  poetic 
legends,  and  filled  with  ghosts.  The  day  breaks 
suddenly  in  the  east  and  with  little  warning  ; the 
sky  grows  gray  and  silvery  ; then  the  horizon  all 
at  once  flushes,  and  out  of  the  desert  rises  the  great 
sun,  a rayless  disk  of  gold  that  rolls  up  into  the 
heavens,  and  the  long  day  is  begun.  Before  sun- 
up we  folded  our  tents.  In  the  horizon  the  peaks 
of  the  distant  Pyramids  of  Sakkarah  were  already 
visible.  Our  path  lay  through  the  desert,  and 
we  were  in  the  saddle  betimes,  for  the  desert  is 
hot  and  blinding,  and  there  is  little  to  interest 
one  after  the  novelty  of  the  first  half  hour  has 
worn  away.  Bound  up  in  a cloak  of  coarse  ca- 
mel’s hair,  with  a large  kerchief  of  silk  and  wool 


MEMPHIS  AND  SAKKARAH. 


121 


drawn  oyer  my  head  and  face,  leaving  only  my 
eyes  exposed,  I was  lifted  into  the  saddle  in  which  I 
was  about  to  make  my  first  pilgrimage  in  the  desert. 

All  this  bundling  is  found  to  be  of  the  utmost 
service  in  the  fierce  desert  heat.  You  look  as  if 
you  were  sweltering,  smothering  under  the  thick 
cloak  and  the  cumbersome,  though  graceful  head- 
gear.  On  the  contrary,  you  are  as  cool  and  com- 
fortable as  possible,  and  can  endure  the  heat  for  a 
whole  day  without  complaining.  My  camel  was 
tied  down  in  the  sand,  patiently  awaiting  his  bur- 
den. You  tie  a camel  to  himself ; that  is,  when 
he  has  shut  up  his  legs  under  him  like  knife-blades, 
you  slip  a leathern  bracelet  over  his  knee,  and 
there  you  have  him,  for  it  is  impossible  for  him 
to  open  his  leg  so  long  as  this  bracelet  is  around 
it,  binding  the  leg  above  the  knee  and  the  shin- 
bone together  like  a pair  of  tongs.  Of  course  it 
is  not  easy  to  find  anything  in  the  desert  to  which 
you  may  tie  your  camel  with  security ; a benefi- 
cent Providence  has  therefore  made  every  camel 
his  own  hitching-post,  likewise  his  own  cistern 
and  vegetable  market  and  step-ladder — in  fact,  the 
camel  is  the  most  complete  machine  on  four  legs 
that  we  have  knowledge  of.  His  machinery  is 
clumsy  and  needs  oiling.  His  great  joints  show 
through  his  sides ; his  tail  is  the  barest  apology 
and  unworthy  of  notice.  You  would  think  your 
camel  went  on  stilts  if  you  were  to  start  off  sud- 
denly, sitting  in  a nest  of  luggage  on  that  high 


122 


HASHALLAH ! 


back  of  his.  You  would  think  he  had  his  feet  in 
poultices  if  you  were  to  look  at  the  soft,  spongy 
things  as  they  fall  noiselessly  on  the  earth  and 
spread  under  his  tottering  weight.  And  that 
tearful  face  of  his,  with  its  liquid  and  pathetic 
eyes,  and  those  deep  cavities  above  them,  big 
enough  to  hold  a hen’s  egg  ; his  aquiline  nose  with 
its  narrow  slanting  nostrils  that  shut  tight  against 
the  sand-storms  and  the  withering  Jchamaseen  and 
give  him  a very  scornful  expression ; the  whole 
face  looks  as  if  it  were  just  going  to  cry.  The 
absurd  under  lip  is  puckering  and  pouting  to  the 
most  alarming  extent,  and  you  are  not  at  all  sur- 
prised when  the  beast  finally  bursts  into  tears  and 
cries,  long  and  loud,  like  a great  overgrown  baby. 
This  is  the  pudding-footed  pride  of  the  desert, 
whose  silken  hair  is  man’s  raiment,  and  whose 
milk  is  meat  and  drink. 

While  my  camel  was  still  kneeling,  I stepped 
into  the  curve  of  his  neck  and  went  up  the  front 
stairs  to  the  top  of  his  hump.  His  saddle  was  a 
tree  of  wood  with  thick  rugs  lashed  over  it.  It 
was  a little  like  swinging  in  a sawbuck,  riding 
that  camel  to  Sakkarah.  He  edged  his  way  over 
the  desert,  putting  the  two  legs  on  one  side  of  him 
forward  at  the  same  time,  and  then  keeling  over 
and  pushing  the  other  side  ahead.  I was  continu- 
ally rocked  back  and  forth  until  my  head  swung 
loosely  on  my  shoulders,  my  sides  ached,  and  all 
my  spine  was  sore.  Many  people  are  seasick  when 


MEMPHIS  AND  SAKKARAH. 


123 


they  mount  a camel  for  the  first  time.  The  mo- 
tion is  not  unlike  that  of  a small  boat  in  a chop- 
ping sea.  There  is  certainly  no  pleasure  and  very 
little  elegance  in  your  rest  as  you  toss  to  and  fro 
on  the  summit  of  that  animated  mountain  of  in- 
dia-rubber. 

The  desert  lay  all  before  us,  rimmed  by  the  Lib- 
yan hills.  We  seemed  to  follow  no  definite  path, 
but  to  travel  by  compass,  taking  an  observation 
now  and  again  from  the  tops  of  the  desert  mounds. 
Everything  was  of  a color — a tawny  white  with 
a tinge  of  gold  in  it.  We  went  down  into  val- 
leys that  were  shadowless,  and  climbed  hills  that 
were  blinding  in  the  glare  of  the  sun.  Away  off 
in  the  sea  of  sand,  between  the  long  waves  that 
opened  before  us,  we  saw  a dark  line  creeping 
slowly,  slowly,  and  with  an  uneven  movement. 
It  looked  precisely  like  a great  black  snake  crawl- 
ing out  into  the  horizon.  It  was  a caravan. 

While  we  strode  through  the  desert  in  silence, 
the  sun  growing  hotter  and  hotter  every  hour,  we 
met  no  one,  no  living  thing,  no  bleaching  skeletons, 
no  objects  of  interest,  nothing  at  all,  until  all  at 
once  we  rounded  a low  hill  and  found  ourselves 
close  upon  a solitary  lodge  in  the  vast  wilderness. 
Three  wolfish-looking  dogs  barked  at  us  from  the 
wall  of  the  house.  We  drew  nearer ; a door  was 
opened ; there  was  not  a window  visible  in  the 
whole  establishment.  Two  Bedawees  stepped  forth 
and  gave  us  the  graceful  salam  of  the  country. 


124 


MASHALLAII ! 


This  was  the  desert  house  of  M.  Mariette,  who  in 
1860-’61  made  his  wonderful  discoveries  in  this 
neighborhood. 

. . . “ There  is  also  a serapium  in  a very  sandy 
spot,  where  drifts  of  sand  are  raised  by  the  wind 
to  such  a degree  that  we  saw  some  sphinxes  buried 
up  to  their  heads,  and  others  half  covered.” 

Thus  wrote  old  Strabo  before  the  Christian  era, 
and  here  Mariette  built  his  lodge  and  set  his  men 
to  work.  The  sphinxes  came  to  light,  an  avenue 
of  them,  very  much  shattered  of  course,  for  they 
were  thousands  of  years  old.  Down  under  the 
desert  the  men  dug  their  way  like  moles  into  the 
subterranean  halls  of  the  Apis  Mausoleum.  In 
the  palmy  days  of  Memphis  the  sacred  bull  was 
worshiped  in  a magnificent  temple  and  stalled  in 
a palace.  When  he  died,  his  embalmed  body  was 
placed  in  a huge  stone  sarcophagus  and  stored  in 
one  of  the  chambers  of  the  Mausoleum.  In  a 
temple  over  the  tombs  sacrifices  were  still  offered, 
and  on  certain  anniversaries  the  great  people  came 
to  worship,  and  placed  tablets  in  the  burial  cham- 
bers commemorative  of  their  visit.  All  this  Ma- 
riette brought  to  light.  Through  the  long  halls 
of  the  Mausoleum  the  guide  with  his  taper,  that 
seems  afraid  to  blaze  in  that  Egyptian  darkness, 
leads  you  from  one  sarcophagus  to  another  in 
funereal  silence.  When  you  have  seen  about  forty 
of  them,  and  have  grown  faint  in  the  close  air,  and 
are  bored  by  sacred  bulls  or  the  shadow  of  them, 


MEMPHIS  AND  SAKKARAH. 


125 


you  return  to  the  glare  of  the  desert  and  wilt 
under  the  fierce  heat  of  the  sun. 

The  marvelous  tomb  of  Tih  is  near  at  hand. 
There  is  a shadow  there,  and  a royal  chamber, 
sculptured,  painted,  and  still  fresh  in  form  and 
color,  though  Tih  gave  up  the  ghost  in  the  Fifth 
Dynasty,  nearly  four  thousand  years  before  Christ. 
The  history,  poetry,  and  romance  of  that  ancient 
life  enrich  the  walls  of  this  tomb.  Tih  was  a 
priest  of  Memphis  ; one  who  loved  wholesome 
out-of-door  sports,  and  was  often  in  his  boat 
decoying  ducks,  or  taking  fish  in  the  Nile  with 
drag  nets,  or  walking  among  the  farmers  in  har- 
vest, sporting  with  his  pet  animals,  sitting  in 
state  entertained  by  singers,  dancers,  and  acro- 
bats ; or  assisting  at  the  services  of  the  temple. 
He  must  have  been  a jovial  priest,  with  his  pet 
Numidian  cranes,  his  fancy  pigeons,  his  gazelles, 
and  the  fondness  he  had  for  games  of  every 
sort.  At  last  he  gave  over  the  joys  of  Memphis, 
was  swathed  in  linen  and  sweet  spices,  cased  in 
wood  and  painted  without  in  a thousand  differ- 
ent colors,  and  then  floated  down  the  Nile  on  a 
death  barge,  and  borne  over  the  desert  on  sledges, 
and  put  away  in  a deep  vault  under  this  palatial 
tomb.  You  have  it  all  in  carved  and  tinted  stone, 
this  quaint  page  out  of  the  Egyptian  life  five 
thousand  years  ago. 

There  are  eleven  pyramids  on  the  Sakkarah 
plateau.  They  spring  upon  all  sides ; some 


126 


HASHALLAH ! 


tower  close  at  hand,  two  or  three  are  in  the 
middle  distance,  and  then  they  grow  beautifully 
less  as  they  sink  into  the  haze — the  sand-laden 
wind  of  the  desert.  The  effect  is  superb,  to 
see  pyramids  in  abundance,  and  nothing  but 
pyramids,  on  a plain  that  is  golden,  undulat- 
ing, shadowless,  with  never  so  much  as  a palm- 
tree  to  relieve  the  monotony  ; and  above  you  the 
broadest,  bluest  sky  imaginable,  cloudless  and 
painfully  bright.  There  is  a pyramid  here,  a little 
out  of  repair,  but  still  not  shabby,  whose  history 
is  guessed  at.  If  that  history  is  true,  then  there 
is  no  monument  on  the  face  of  the  earth  older 
than  this ; there  is  nothing  to  be  compared  with 
it.  It  is  the  foundation-stone  of  all  that  has  fol- 
lowed in  the  history  of  mankind,  of  all  that  is  yet 
to  come.  I believe  you  realize  this  as  you  pause 
under  the  pyramid,  spite  of  the  glare,  the  heat, 
the  camel,  and  are  rather  glad  to  get  away  again 
and  to  hasten  toward  the  edge  of  the  desert,  where 
the  palms  crowd  together  in  great  armies  and 
wave  their  boughs  of  welcome. 

You  may  ride  all  day  among  the  palm  groves, 
and  over  plowed  fields  where  Memphis  once  stood, 
and  you  will  not,  if  you  are  not  forewarned,  suspect 
that  the  glorious  city  lies  under  your  feet,  in  the 
dust.  There  is  not  a trace  of  it  left ; these  groves 
that  make  the  land  lovely  to-day  may  be  distantly 
related  to  the  sacred  groves  for  which  Memphis 
was  celebrated,  but  the  half-dozen  broken  statues 


MEMPHIS  AND  SAKKARAH. 


127 


that  lie  partially  buried  among  them  are  stronger 
links  that  bind  us  to  the  past.  The  plowmen, 
thrusting  their  rude  sticks  into  the  soil,  turn  up 
the  coins  and  amulets  that  are  so  ingeniously  imi- 
tated nowadays,  and  the  custodian  of  a rustic 
museum  stored  with  minute  fragments  of  sculp- 
ture is  ever  eager  to  part  with  his  treasures  at 
absurdly  high  figures.  Memphis,  for  whose  foun- 
dation the  Nile  was  turned  aside,  has  departed  like 
its  sister  Alexandria,  and  left  no  sign.  The  Nile 
has  come  back  to  mourn  over  it,  and  to  leave 
green  pools  of  water  under  the  groves,  where  the 
frogs  croak  and  white  ibises  brood,  and  the  snake 
sleeps.  When  the  water  flows  back  and  the  pools 
have  been  drunk  up  by  the  sun,  there  is  a majestic 
figure  of  stone,  prone  on  its  face  in  the  dust,  that 
lies  hidden  in  one  of  the  grassy  hollows.  He  stood 
thirty  cubits  high;  he  wore  on  his  breast  an  amulet, 
and  in  bis  hand  he  held  a scroll  bearing  his  name, 
Amun-mai-Rameses.  How  are  the  mighty  fallen  ! 
With  his  forehead  to  the  earth — the  last  survivor 
of  all  the  gods  of  Memphis — it  might  have  been 
written  of  him  as  it  was  written  of  Sisera  when 
he  perished  at  the  foot  of  her  he  loved.  Yea ! 
under  these  palms,  the  funeral  plumes  of  the  de- 
parted Memphis,  Deborah  might  have  raised  her 
song  of  Amun-mai-Rameses  and  of  Time  who 
slew  him  : “At  her  feet  he  bowed,  he  fell,  he  lay 
down  ; at  her  feet  he  bowed,  he  fell ; where  he 
bowed,  there  he  fell  down  dead.” 


128 


MASHALLAH ! 


XIII. 

ON  THE  NILE. 

Dahabeah  Nitetis,  on  the  Nile. 

We  are  off  at  last  and  all  adrift  under  the 
vertical  sun.  We  are  threading  the  tremendous 
artery  that  gives  life  to  so  many  millions  of  peo- 
ple, working  against  a powerful  current,  an  occa- 
sional calm,  or  a possible  head  wind ; working 
slowly  but  surely  southward  toward  the  heart  of 
Africa. 

As  I open  this  Nile  log  with  an  enthusiastic 
determination  to  write  a vast  volume  before  we 
return  to  Cairo  out  of  the  Nubian  wilderness,  I 
wonder  where  we  will  fetch  up,  and  when,  and 
how,  and  why.  Just  now  it  seems  to  me  that  I 
could  sail  on  for  ever  as  we  have  been  sailing  to- 
day, and  for  ever  find  a consolation  in  the  thought 
that  we  are  out  of  the  reach  of  bad  tidings,  and 
have  nothing  to  do  but  kill  time  in  whatever  way 

we  see  fit.  Mr.  H is  our  head  man.  It  was  he 

who  rushed  to  and  fro  for  a whole  week  looking 
for  a barge  to  let,  and  finding  the  port  of  Boolak, 
which  is  the  water  front  of  Cairo,  crowded  with 
boats  of  every  description.  Many  of  them  have 
already  done  duty  this  year — for  we  are  late  in  the 
season — but  are  ready  to  do  it  again  at  a reduced 
figure.  The  proprietors  of  the  Nile  boats  find  it 


ON  THE  NILE. 


129 


a profitable  speculation  to  have  a small  fleet  on  the 
river  ready  to  set  sail  at  the  shortest  notice.  Mr. 

H secured  one  of  these  barges,  which  we  are 

only  too  happy  to  call  dahabeah  as  frequently  as 
possible,  because  it  sounds  queer  and  we  have  but 
just  learned  how  to  pronounce  it. 

The  Nitetis  is  a broad,  flat-bottomed  craft, 
one  hundred  and  twenty  feet  in  length.  A 
cabin  covers  two  thirds  of  her  deck,  a cabin 
with  two  saloons,  several  single  and  double  state- 
rooms, a bath-room,  and  all  the  luxuries  of  first- 
class  hotel  life.  There  is  a short  mast  in  the 
bow  of  the  boat,  with  a spar  one  hundred  and 
seventy  feet  in  length ; a spar  beginning  close 
to  the  water  on  one  side  of  the  boat,  crossing 
over  the  top  of  the  mast,  and  then  tapering 
away  to  a fine  point  that  seems  to  rake  the  very 
stars.  Just  over  the  rudder  is  our  other  mast, 
with  a small  lateen  sail,  and  on  these  two  sheets 
hang  all  our  hope  of  Nubia.  The  galley,  which 
looks  like  a toy  kitchen,  is  in  the  bow  of  the 
boat,  open  to  the  air — we  fear  no  rain  in  this 
latitude  — and  the  wonder  is  how  such  capital 
dishes  can  emanate  from  so  primitive  an  establish- 
ment. The  main  deck  is  a complication  of  trap- 
doors. It  is  just  the  place  for  a pantomime,  or 
something  in  the  line  of  startling  effects,  sud- 
den transformations,  etc.  The  crew  — captain, 
second  captain,  fourteen  sailors,  cook,  vice-cook, 
and  two  cabin-boys,  together  with  an  excessively 
9 


130 


HASHALLAH ! 


small  Arab,  a son  of  the  old  captain,  who  is  seeing 
the  world  for  the  first  time — all  these  good  and 
faithful  fellows  sleep  on  deck,  unless  they  prefer 
to  spring  a trap-door  on  themselves  and  mys- 
teriously disappear.  We  have  also  the  dragoman, 
without  whom  it  were  vain  to  attempt  the  Nile, 
for  the  bother  would  make  any  economy  a dear 
experience,  more  than  counterbalanced  by  the 
wear  and  tear  of  nerves,  coupled  with  a conscious- 
ness that  the  Arabs  were  getting  the  better  of  you 
day  by  day.  Our  dragoman,  Michel  Shyah,  the 
white  swallow  among  dragomen,  a handsome  and 
well-bred  Syrian,  has  his  assistant,  one  Yussef 
Amatury,  of  Beyrut,  who  has  English  and  French 
at  his  tongue’s  end,  and,  though  a boy,  he  was  born 
and  bred  to  the  business  of  catering  for  others, 
and  proves  his  ability  almost  every  moment. 

We  of  the  cabin  are  ten  in  number.  Four  ladies 
shed  their  sweet  influences  over  the  adamantine 

hearts  of  five  bachelors.  Mr.  H , our  head  and 

front,  is  a victim  of  matrimony,  but  it  is  well  to 
have  something  of  the  sort  to  stand  as  mediator  be- 
tween us.  That  is  all  our  manifest  manifests  to 
the  public  eye,  but  there  are  nooks  and  corners  in 
the  cabin  of  the  Nitetis  that  are  stuffed  full  of 
good  wines,  good  cigars,  special  jars  of  dainties,  to 
be  discussed  between  meals,  and  our  bookshelves 
groan  under  their  weight  of  precious  volumes. 
A piano  made  its  appearance  at  the  last  moment, 
and  several  easy-chairs  were  hurried  on  board  just 


ON  THE  NILE. 


131 


as  we  were  casting  loose  at  Boolak.  At  this  stage 
of  the  voyage  we  can  think  of  nothing  desirable 
which  we  have  not  within  reach,  and  it  now  seems 
to  us  that  all  that  is  best  in  life  has  come  up  into 
the  ship  with  us,  two  and  two  of  every  kind  ; we 
feel  like  saying  to  the  wicked  world  on  which  we 
are  turning  our  back  : “Farewell ; be  happy,  if 
you  still  have  ingenuity  enough  to  devise  some 
new  method  of  enjoyment.  Be  gay,  poor  world- 
ling, but  as  for  us  we  go  hence  in  search  of  the 
peace  which  has  escaped  us  hitherto.  We  are 
about  to  corner  it  somewhere  in  the  African 
wilds ! ” 

Then  with  a patronizing  wave  of  the  hand 
we  lean  over  the  quarter  rail,  ten  of  us  in  a row, 
and  the  great  white  sail  of  the  bow  spreads  it- 
self like  an  ibis  wing,  and  the  little  sail  in  the 
stern  follows  suit.  We  swing  off  into  the  stream 
with  a strange  sensation,  as  if  we  were  not  quite 
sure  of  our  reckoning — and  what  if  we  should 
never  get  back  ! A sudden  flash  from  the  lower 
deck,  the  sharp  snap  of  a rifle,  and  Yussef  tosses 
his  tarboosh  into  the  air,  and  cries  “ Hip  ! hip  ! ” 
to  the  crew  of  dusky  savages,  who  smile  with  all 
their  fine  white  teeth  in  dazzling  array.  That  is 
cue  enough  for  them,  and  we  have  three  rousing 
cheers  that  are  echoed  from  the  hollow  courts  of 
the  great  houses  along  the  Nile  bank.  I don’t 
remember  how  long  this  sort  of  thing  con- 
tinued. 


132 


MASHALLAH ! 


We  strode  about  the  deck,  the  quarter-deck  over 
the  cabin,  where  we  had  room  enough  to  stride  in, 
and  watched  the  palm  groves  on  shore  and  hailed 
the  barges  that  were  continually  passing  us,  for 
the  Nile  is  crowded  with  boats,  native  and  foreign. 
Then  we  began  reading  diligently,  and  read  for 
ten  minutes  or  so  without  stopping.  Everything 
is  still  new  to  us.  We  have  not  yet  got  over  the 
bazaar  life  of  Cairo,  which  is  so  beautiful  and  so 
bewildering.  We  are  only  a few  hours  out  on  a 
voyage  of  two  months  or  more.  We  don’t  know 
exactly  what  to  do  next.  Some  one  goes  to  the 
piano,  and  a fragment  of  a Strauss  waltz  sets  our 
feet  in  motion.  Then  Yussef  reports  the  Pyra- 
mids just  abreast  of  us,  and  we  drop  everything 
else  and  turn  to  the  west,  where,  beyond  the  palm 
groves  and  the  glassy  pools  that  reflect  them,  we 
see  the  three  pyramids,  with  the  sun  gilding  one 
side  of  each  and  casting  a deep  shadow  on  the 
other.  Sometimes  the  wind  falls  a little  and  our 
sails  sag,  and  we  are  borne  back  by  the  strong 
current  of  the  stream.  At  such  seasons  we  all 
talk  wildly  of  expeditions  on  shore,  but  by  the 
time  we  have  come  to  a definite  conclusion  as  to 
the  nature  of  these  exploits — whether  it  be  a pil- 
grimage to  the  Pvramids  that  keep  staring  at  us 
from  over  the  desert,  or  a picnic  in  the  delightful 
grove  by  the  shore,  or  a visit  to  a mud  village  that 
is  perched  on  the  edge  of  the  high  bank  a mile  or 
two  up  stream — by  this  time  the  wind  rises  again 


ON  THE  NILE. 


133 


and  fills  our  sails,  and  we  spring  forward  with  a 
roar  of  waters  under  our  bow  and  a white  wave 
on  each  side  of  ns. 

A downward-bound  dahabeah  was  reported  at 
three  o’clock.  She  hoisted  the  English  flag  and 
we  threw  out  the  Stars  and  Stripes.  Yussef  was 
on  hand,  of  course,  and  as  we  came  abreast  in 
mid-stream,  quite  near  to  each  other,  we  dipped 
colors  and  gave  them  a salute  of  three  guns.  To 
our  amazement,  they  took  not  the  slightest  no- 
tice of  us.  There  was  no  one  on  deck ; the 
crew  labored  heavily  at  the  long  oars  and  droned 
out  a doleful  song — they  always  sing,  these  Arabs  ; 
and  in  ten  minutes  we  were  out  of  hailing  dis- 
tance, discussing  with  considerable  warmth  the 
political  significance  of  this  snub.  Our  enthu- 
siasm was  boundless.  This  is  the  first  foreign 
boat  we  have  met,  and  if  those  indifferent  Eng- 
lishers  had  given  us  half  a chance  we  would  have 
come  to  anchor  in  mid-stream,  boarded  them, 
loaded  them  with  congratulations  and  late  papers, 
and  then  brought  them  over  to  the  Nitetis  in  royal 
style,  and  popped  our  best  champagne  in  honor  of 
the  occasion.  We  conclude  that  the  entire  party 
has  expired  on  the  voyage,  and  the  funeral  barge 
is  returning  to  Cairo  in  deep  mourning.  We  are 
encouraged  in  this  belief  by  the  melancholy,  the 
heart-rending  accounts  of  the  sufferings  endured 
by  passengers  in  dahabeahs,  as  published  and  dili- 
gently circulated  by  Messrs.  Thomas  Cook  & Son 


134 


MASHALLAH ! 


(and  Jenkins),  who  have  purchased  the  monopoly 
of  the  little  Nile  steamers. 

Toward  evening,  when  the  wind  had  fresh- 
ened, and  we  were  dashing  through  the  water 
in  splendid  style,  all  of  a sudden  we  began  to 
tremble  violently,  and  then  we  came  to  a dead 
halt  in  the  middle  of  the  river.  The  braces 
were  cast  off  immediately,  and  the  great  sails  flut- 
tered like  immense  banners.  We  were  aground. 
There  was  not  a shadow  of  doubt  as  to  that 
fact,  and  I wondered  how  we  were  to  get  off 
again.  The  sailors  ran  up  the  shrouds  immedi- 
ately and  climbed  out  on  the  long,  slender  spar, 
the  point  of  which  bent  under  them  a little.  Then 
they  all  began  gathering  in  the  sail  by  the  armful, 
and  singing,  or  rather  chanting,  a litany  of  their 
saints.  It  was  a perpetual  cry  to  Job,  whom  they 
call  “ Yob,”  for  patience,  and  a responsive  cry  to 
Sarah,  the  wife  of  Abraham,  though  I don’t  know 
what  she  has  to  do  with  the  nautical  career  of 
these  Nile  bargemen.  “ Sarah,  Yob,  Sarah,  Yob,” 
reiterated  in  little  gasps  by  the  double  choir,  who 
devoted  themselves  respectively  to  these  worthy 
ancients,  brought  the  snow-white  canvas  into  its 
net  of  rope  and  fastened  it  securely  to  the  spar. 
Down  came  the  sailor-boys,  as  lithe  as  monkeys. 
The  next  moment  these  same  boys  threw  off  their 
scanty  garments  and  leaped  overboard.  They 
were  only  waist-deep  in  the  water,  and  yet  the 
Nile  banks  were  a quarter  of  a mile  distant  on 


ON  THE  NILE. 


135 


each  side  of  us.  The  Nile  barge  has  a heavy  bow, 
built  expressly  with  a view  to  hutting  in  to  sand- 
bars. The  barge  draws  more  water  under  the  bow 
than  anywhere  else.  When  you  run  on  to  a bar 
you  never  run  very  deep  into  it,  and  the  bow  is 
all  that  sticks  ; you  generally  swing  around  in  the 
current  as  if  you  were  hung  on  a pivot.  The  crew 
backed  under  our  bow  and  put  their  shoulders  to 
the  boat.  Then  beginning  their  litany,  “Yob  and 
Sarah,”  they  hoisted  us  off  into  the  stream,  where 
the  current  took  us  and  bore  us  away  so  rapidly 
that  the  crew  had  to  swim  after  us,  which  they  did 
with  the  utmost  jollity.  They  came  out,  sleek  and 
glossy — splendidly  built  fellows  of  all  shades  of 
color,  from  the  olive  of  the  Cairene  to  the  ebony 
of  the  Nubian.  We  were  rapidly  drifting  toward 
Cairo,  the  current  of  the  Nile  is  so  powerful.  Be- 
fore the  crew  had  time  to  resume  their  wardrobe, 
the  old  Bais,  the  captain,  gave  the  order  to  shake 
out  our  canvas,  and  with  one  pull  at  the  right 
rope  the  lashings  on  the  sail  unraveled  like  a sew- 
ing-machine stitch  and  the  sail  filled  in  a moment. 
“Job  and  Sarah  ” had  nothing  to  do  with  this 
brilliant  Nilotic  feat.  The  more  appropriate 
chorus  would  be  “Wheeler  and  Wilson,”  “Will- 
cox  and  Gibbs  ! ” 

Scarcely  had  our  astonishment  subsided,  even 
in  the  midst  of  our  mutual  congratulation  on  the 
happy  escape  from  the  bar,  when  a second  shock 
brought  us  all  to  our  feet.  Again  the  canvas 


136 


MASHALLAH ! 


flapped  wildly  in  tlie  wind,  and  we  turned  aside 
to  muse  on  wrecks  and  desert  islands  and  other 
delicious  horrors  of  our  youth.  It  was  a waste  of 
sentiment,  if  indeed  this  delightful  accomplish- 
ment is  ever  out  of  place,  for  the  strong  tide  took 
us  in  its  arms,  as  if  it  were  sorry  that  we  couldn’t 
keep  out  of  difficulty  for  a brief  half  hour,  and 
we  were  backed  off  that  shoal  without  disturbing 
either  “ Sarah  or  Job.”  Free  at  last!  with 
sails  full  of  soft  Arabian  airs  and  the  sun  fast 
sinking  to  his  desert  bed  ! Dinner  on  deck  under 
the  awning  and  the  wind  sighing  itself  to  sleep — 
a dinner  such  as  one  reads  of  in  fairy  tales  of 
travel.  Michel,  the  soft-eyed  Syrian,  gorgeously 
arrayed  in  vestments  of  purple  and  fine  linen, 
stood  by,  praying  that  our  appetites  might  last 
for  ever,  and  that  Providence  would  graciously 
grant  him  the  privilege  of  satisfying  us.  Yussef 
was  there  in  scarlet  tarboosh  and  Oxford  ties — 
for  Yussef  has  burst  the  bonds  of  his  nationality, 
and  aspires  to  American — yes,  even  Californian 
— styles.  Yussef  waves  a tuft  of  ostrich  feathers 
over  the  “ banged  ” forelocks  of  the  fair,  and  is 
a great  ladies’  man.  Habib  flies  to  and  fro  and 
offers  us  course  after  course  of  dainty  dishes  that 
have  come  just  from  the  hands  of  Antoine,  the 
cook  from  Bagdad.  There  is  magic  in  that  word, 
for  no  one  but  a magician  could  conjure  din- 
ners such  as  ours  from  the  pocket  kitchen  in  the 
forecastle. 


ON  THE  NILE. 


137 


More  pyramids  for  dessert,  Sakkarah  and  all 
that,  and  a golden  haze  glorifying  the  forest 
palms  of  Memphis.  Music  meanwhile ; soft 
songs  of  love,  softer  in  the  lips  of  these  dark 
lovers  than  honey  in  the  honeycomb ; weird 
songs,  whose  melodies  floated  vaguely  on  the  air 
like  iEolian  harp  music.  The  eyes  of  the  singers 
are  shut  in  ecstasy  as  they  sit  in  a circle  under 
the  shadow  of  the  great  sail ; their  hands  beat 
time  and  their  heads  wag  to  the  jingle  of  the 
shuddering  tar  and  the  deep  throb  of  the  dara- 
iukJceh.  A twilight  steals  on  us  unawares,  for 
we  are  all  dreamers  now.  Just  ahead  of  us  is  a 
great  bend  in  the  river,  beyond  which  the  wind 
drops  dead  and  the  current  hurls  us  up  under  a 
beetling  crag.  The  music  ceases  ; we  all  rush  to 
arms  ; with  our  hands  we  have  touched  the  shore  ; 
the  earth  is  ground  off  and  clrops  in  at  our  open 
windows  as  the  strong  tide  crowds  our  barge  upon 
the  shore.  Now,  Sarah ! and  now.  Job ! and 
others  of  your  holy  tribe,  help  these  poor  fellows 
who  are  groaning  in  spirit  as  they  struggle  to 
deliver  us  out  of  our  peril.  Free  at  last ; a sud- 
den silence  falls  on  us.  We  drift  with  the  cur- 
rent, and,  looking  up  along  the  crest  of  the  cliff 
at  whose  base  we  had  been  humbled,  there  tower 
the  rugged  walls  of  a Coptic  convent.  It  was  like 
a grave  for  stillness ; a few  palms  mourned  over 
the  solitude  of  the  place  and  looked  at  their  re- 
flections in  the  water ; the  moon  hung  in  their 


138 


MASHALT.AH  ! 


branches,  but  shed  no  ray  upon  the  forlorn  bat- 
tlements that  have  been  set  against  the  fierce 
splendor  of  this  Egyptian  world — they  were  in 
deep  and  impenetrable  shadow.  Music  again 
arose  upon  the  breathless  night ; Madame  had 
stolen  to  the  piano  unobserved,  and  with  the 
sympathetic  touch  of  the  artist  she  rendered  the 
“Moonlight  Sonata.” 

0 Egypt  ! 0 Nile  ! 0 Beethoven ! in  the 
yellow  moonlight  under  the  brooding  palms  ! We 
drifted  to  a safer  shore  and  folded  our  wings 
like  a night-bird ; for  the  wind  was  dead.  And 
the  evening  and  the  morning  were  the  first  day  ! 


XIV. 

AN  ARABIAN  NIGHT. 

Dahabeah  Nitetis,  on  the  Nile. 

As  the  novelty  of  our  voyage  wears  off  we 
begin  to  look  forward  to  the  choice  hours  of  the 
day  with  joyful  anticipation.  The  world  is  for- 
gotten. We  never  speak  of  it  now,  unless  in  re- 
calling some  episode  in  our  past  life,  which  seems 
to  us  like  a dream.  Doubtless  the  state  of  the 
weather  has  much  to  do  with  this  spiritual  repose 
which  we  enjoy  in  common  at  intervals.  Mean- 
while there  are  occasional  bursts  of  enthusiasm  on 


AN  ARABIAN  NIGHT. 


139 


the  part  of  some  one  member  of  our  party  that 
seem  to  us  unwarranted,  not  to  say  inexcusable. 
Some  folk  are  as  sensitive  as  hair-triggers,  and 
they  not  unfrequently  “go  off  half-cocked.” 
Happily,  I don’t  travel  with  a mouthful  of  ex- 
clamation points,  and  the  equilibrium  is  pre- 
served on  hoard.  Dinner  is  an  event  in  our  lives 
these  days,  but  dinner  happens  to  reach  its  crisis 
just  at  twilight,  and  there  is  nothing  in  all  Egypt 
better  than  sunset  and  the  after-glow  and  the 
divine  night  that  follows.  Last  night  the  sun 
went  down  in  a yellow  mist  that  hung  over  the 
desert  like  a veil.  It  seemed  as  if  the  ancient 
mysteries  were  concealed  beyond  it,  and  that  all 
the  glow  was  the  flame  and  the  lurid  smoke  of 
sacrificial  fires.  I fancy  it  would  not  be  very 
difficult  to  turn  heathen  in  this  heathenish  land. 

Its  superstitions  begin  to  tell  upon  some  of  us 
already,  in  spite  of  two  clerical  fellow  voyagers 
who  are  supposed  to  stand  between  us  and  perdi- 
tion. After  that  sunset  came  the  exquisite  twi- 
light and  one  of  the  landscapes  peculiar  to  the 
Nile  coast.  Looking  east  over  the  water,  which 
was  as  blue  as  the  sea,  the  eye  fell  first  upon  a 
strip  of  juicy  green  meadow-land.  Beyond  it,  a 
few  miles  back — two  or  three,  perhaps — rose  a 
low  range  of  hills  as  bare  as  chalk  and  of  the 
color  of  dust-powdered  snow.  The  sky  just  above 
the  hills — they  were  the  Arabian  hills — was  of 
the  brightest  blue  with  a silver  luster  over  it  all. 


140 


MASHALLAH ! 


There  was  a soft,  rose-colored  cliff  to  the  left, 
and  above,  in  the  middle  distance,  in  the  midst 
of  the  plain  beyond  the  meadow,  stood  a solitary 
tomb  with  its  low  dome  and  one  melancholy  palm 
beside  it,  the  tomb  and  the  palm  as  brown  as 
chocolate,  and  not  a living  or  moving  thing  in  all 
that  half  of  the  visible  world.  By  and  by  a thin, 
filmy  haze  gathered  over  the  scene  and  absorbed 
it  in  tranquil  and  pathetic  silence.  The  immense 
stars  came  forth  suddenly,  and  seemed  to  float  in 
mid-air,  very  close  to  us.  You  might  almost  have 
heard  them  twinkle,  they  were  so  big  and  so  bril- 
liant. There  were  subdued  voices  in  the  cabin. 
Busy  pens  flew  over  the  paper,  inditing  letters  to 
that  tedious  world  we  have  turned  our  backs 
upon  or  filling  up  page  after  page  of  the  Nile 
journals,  that  shall  hereafter  wring  our  hearts 
with  too  fond  memories  of  these  shores. 

The  crew  dozed  on  the  deck  below  me  as  I curled 
up  in  the  corner  of  a deep  divan,  with  my  cigar 
alight,  waiting  for  the  late  moonrise.  The  shad- 
ow of  the  big  stars  plunged  in  the  river,  or  threw 
long  golden  wakes  on  the  water  that  reached  to 
the  other  shore.  Barges  drifted  by  us — mysteri- 
ous barges,  that  came  like  phantoms  out  of  the 
shadow  and  resolved  their  colors  into  shadow 
again  ; but  not  until  we  had  hailed  them,  and 
learned  from  them  how  the  changeable  bars  lay 
among  the  currents  just  above  us.  Sometimes 
an  animated  conversation  was  continued  long 


AN  ARABIAN  NIGHT. 


141 


after  the  passing  barge  had  faded  away  in  dark- 
ness) and  the  voices  returned  to  us  out  of  the 
air,  growing  fainter  and  fainter,  like  oft-repeated 
echoes. 

There  was  a wild  gorge  in  the  Arabian  hills, 
where  the  chain  drew  near  the  shore.  As  we 
approached  it,  I saw  that  it  was  flooded  with  mel- 
low light.  Soft  breezes  bore  us  slowly  against 
the  river  current,  and  we  noiselessly  approached 
the  mouth  of  the  gorge.  Oh,  vale  of  wild  en- 
chantment ! Fantastic  crags  leaped  into  the  air 
and  hung  suspended  by  some  mighty  magic.  Be- 
tween the  golden  walls,  in  the  bed  of  the  val- 
ley, a grove  of  palms  rustled  their  plumes  in 
the  delicious  air,  and  just  above  these  palms  rose 
the  splendid  moon.  Every  leaf  was  lustrous  in 
its  light ; every  rock  sparkled  faintly,  and  out 
of  the  mouth  of  the  valley  poured  a deluge  of 
light,  in  which  we  were  all  crowned  with  glory 
and  transfigured.  Our  barge  was  silver,  our 
sails  of  softest  silk,  and  bright  flames  played 
upon  the  waters  under  us.  It  was  one  of  the 
gates  of  Paradise  ! There  was  a great  bend  in  the 
river,  beyond  the  valley,  and  when  we  had  round- 
ed it  those  gates  were  closed  on  us  for  ever  and 
ever.  The  moon  climbed  up  into  heaven  and 
did  what  she  could  to  smother  the  stars ; they 
are  not  easily  outshone  in  these  crystal  skies. 
The  cabin  went  to  sleep  in  a body.  I hung 
about  the  ship,  and  burned  my  weed  with  the 


142 


MASHALLAH ! 


spirit  of  one  who  offers  a sacrifice  to  some  ador- 
able but  invisible  object.  I scented  the  incense 
of  the  nargileb  and  heard  the  water  bubbling  in 
the  shell  of  the  cocoanut  pipes.  I knew  that  the 
hasheesh-eaters  were  sleeping  their  fatal  sleep  (we 
have  six  of  them  in  our  crew).  Very  shortly  one 
of  these  slaves  of  sleep  began  muttering  to  the 
moon  in  a kind  of  sing-song  that  attracted  about 
him  an  audience  of  intent  listeners.  The  story- 
teller reclined  on  his  bed  of  rugs  between  decks  ; 
the  hatch  was  drawn  back,  and  a great  square  of 
moonlight  brought  him  into  strong  relief.  Dark 
Nubians  lay  at  full  length  on  the  deck,  and  lis- 
tened as  stealthily  as  spies.  Two  or  three  of  the 
hasheesh-eaters  sat  near  and  applauded  the  narra- 
tion with  foolish  delight,  chuckling  to  themselves 
continually,  and  filling  up  the  pauses  in  the  nar- 
ration, when  the  narrator  seemed  to  have  dropped 
fast  asleep,  with  expressions  of  their  complete 
satisfaction.  Yussef  was  near  me  ; we  were  lean- 
ing together  over  the  rail,  looking  down  upon  the 
picturesque  group  below.  He  gave  me,  in  his 
literal  translation,  fragment  after  fragment  of  this 
thousand  and  second  tale  just  as  it  came  from  the 
lips  of  that  hasheesh  dreamer  under  the  moon- 
light on  the  Nile. 

CHAPTER  i. 

There  was  a king  in  Egypt  who  had  three 
sons.  About  his  palace  was  a royal  garden ; in 


AN  ARABIAN  NIGHT. 


148 


a chosen  comer  of  the  garden  stood  an  apricot 
tree  beloved  of  the  King.  Now,  when  it  was 
summer,  and  the  fruits  were  ripening,  the  King 
grew  sorrowful,  and  sat  alone  in  his  chamber  day 
after  day  ; so  his  sons  went  in  to  him,  and  said, 
“Sire,  why  sit  you  sorrowful  and  alone  in  the 
pleasantest  days  of  the  year  ? ” 

The  King  answered,  “Behold,  my  apricots 
ripen,  but  as  fast  as  they  ripen  they  disappear  in 
the  night,  and  my  life  has  become  a burden  to 
me  in  consequence  of  this  thing.” 

The  elder  son  said,  “Be  of  good  cheer  ; I will 
watch  with  the  tree  this  night,  and  bring  you  the 
ripest  fruit  at  daybreak.” 

“God  is  great!”  exclaimed  the  King,  strok- 
ing his  beard.  His  three  sons  kissed  his  hand 
and  withdrew. 


CHAPTER  II. 

When  it  was  evening,  the  elder  son  went  out 
and  sat  under  the  apricot  tree,  and  bent  his  watch- 
ful eye  among  the  branches ; the  fruit  ripened, 
but  while  it  was  very  still  the  watcher  slept,  and 
when  he  awoke  at  dawn  all  that  was  ripe  had 
been  plucked  out  of  the  branches : and  the  King 
mourned  again. 

Then  spoke  the  second  son : “ Sire,  I will 
watch  to-night ! ” So  he  watched  and  slept,  and 
between  watching  and  sleeping  the  tree  was  robbed 
again. 


144 


MASHALLAH ! 


On  the  third  night  the  third  son  said  : “Let 
me  watch  ; it  may  be  I shall  save  the  fruit.” 

Then  they  laughed  at  him,  for  he  was  young 
and  handsome.  But  at  night  he  girded  on  his 
sword,  and  took  in  his  hands  a ball  of  snow,  and 
went  out  to  watch.  Placing  the  snow  in  a branch 
of  a tree,  he  lay  down  under  it.  When  he  slept, 
the  melting  snow  fell,  drop  by  drop,  on  his  eye- 
lids, and  he  kept  watch  until  midnight.  At  mid- 
night he  heard  a movement  among  the  branches. 
The  stars  were  bright,  but  he  saw  nothing.  He 
arose  and  cut  the  air  with  his  sword,  till  he  heard 
a cry  of  pain,  and  the  ripe  fruit  fell  at  his  feet. 

At  daybreak  he  returned  to  the  palace,  offered 
his  trophies  to  the  King  on  a tray  of  ebony  set 
with  jewels,  and  the  King  fell  upon  his  neck  and 
kissed  him. 


CHAPTER  III. 

The  youngest  son  said  to  his  brothers,  “Let 
us  capture  the  thief.”  He  took  with  him  his 
sword  and  a long  cord,  and  went  out  to  the  apri- 
cot tree  ; the  ground  was  stained  with  blood,  and 
the  three  followed  the  bloody  stains  till  they 
came  to  the  mouth  of  a deep  pit.  The  youngest 
son  tied  the  rope  about  his  waist,  and  his  brothers 
let  him  down  into  the  pit,  deeper  and  deeper,  un- 
til he  came  to  a cave  in  the  side  of  it.  The  floor 
of  the  cave  was  blood-stained,  and  he  entered 
cautiously,  and  groped  about  until  he  came  upon 


AN  ARABIAN  NIGHT. 


145 


a marvelous  garden  in  the  under- world.  In  the 
midst  of  the  garden  was  a palace,  and  in  a win- 
dow of  the  palace  sat  a lady  of  such  beauty  that 
the  boy  exclaimed  at  it.  She  turned  to  him  with 
unfeigned  joy,  and  cried,  “Abdallah”  (it  was  his 
name),  “at  last  we  meet !” 

Then  she  bade  him  steal  in  at  the  palace  door 
and  find  a genie  sleeping  in  a lower  chamber. 
“Smite  him  as  he  sleeps,”  said  she  ; “but,  when 
he  bids  you  smite  again,  beware,  for  the  first  blow 
is  fatal,  the  second  restores  him  to  life.” 

Abdallah  entered  the  palace  chamber  and  smote 
the  genie,  who  cried,  “ Smite  again  ! ” And  then 
he  died  in  his  own  blood. 

The  fair  lady  fell  upon  Abdallah’s  breast,  and 
tore  from  her  arm  a bracelet  of  wonderful  work- 
manship, which  she  clasped  upon  his  wrist  as  a 
token. 

Together  they  returned  to  the  mouth  of  the 
cave,  and  the  lady  sat  in  a noose  while  the  broth- 
ers drew  her  out  of  the  pit. 

When  the  rope  was  let  down  again,  Abdallah 
seized  it,  but  the  brothers,  who  were  filled  with 
envy,  no  sooner  felt  his  weight  upon  the  rope 
than  they  let  it  drop,  and  Abdallah  fell  into  the 
bottom  of  the  pit. 


CHAPTER  IY. 

Stunned  and  bruised,  Abdallah  lay  for  some 
time  on  the  heap  of  rubbish  at  the  bottom  of  the 
10 


146 


MASHALLAH ! 


pit,  which  had.  fortunately  broken  his  fall.  When 
he  had  sufficiently  recovered,  he  looked  about  him 
and  discovered  another  cavern  close  at  hand.  He 
entered,  threaded  its  mazes,  and  came  at  last  into 
a great  lovely  land,  through  which  he  wandered 
hour  after  hour.  Faint  with  hunger  and  thirst, 
he  hailed  with  joy  the  low  walls  of  a cottage 
standing  under  a distant  hill. 

A woman  sat  alone  in  the  doorway.  He 
begged  of  her  a draught  of  water  and  a morsel  of 
bread.  These  she  gave  him,  but  added  : “Drink 
little,  0 stranger  ! for  our  fountain  is  guarded  by 
a dragon  who  is  so  watchful  that  only  when  he 
sleeps  can  we  obtain  our  life-giving  water.”  Ab- 
dallah offered  his  services  to  the  good  woman  in 
return  for  her  kindness,  and  was  directed  to  her 
flocks  over  the  brow  of  the  hill,  and  warned  to 
keep  them  from  the  jaws  of  the  hungry  dragon. 
The  lad  went  out  with  his  sword  and  drew  the 
goats  about  him.  He  wandered  from  one  hill  top 
to  another  until  he  came  to  the  dragon’s  fount, 
and  there  he  paused.  The  dragon  slept  with  his 
huge  paw  over  the  mouth  of  the  fountain,  so  that 
little  or  no  water  escaped  from  under  it.  Abdal- 
lah approached  with  caution,  having  first  taken 
in  his  arms  a young  kid,  and,  when  his  step  awoke 
the  dragon,  he  threw  the  kid  into  the  open  jaws. 
At  that  moment  he  rushed  upon  the  monster  and 
slew  him  with  a dexterous  thrust  in  a vital  part, 
and  then  returned  to  the  old  woman  and  related 


AN  ARABIAN  NIGHT. 


147 


his  adventure.  No  sooner  was  the  good  news 
known  in  that  wonder- world  than  the  King  sum- 
moned the  young  victor,  and,  having  embraced 
him,  pressed  upon  him  a favorite  daughter  and  a 
royal  palace,  but  these  gifts  were  refused  by  Ab- 
dallah, who  desired  only  to  be  restored  to  his  own 
people. 

“ That  is  beyond  my  power,”  said  the  King, 
sadly,  and  he  gave  the  boy  a splendid  garment 
and  a purse  of  gold. 

Then  Abdallah  went  forth  into  the  lonesome 
land,  and  when  it  was  in  the  heat  of  the  day  he 
entered  a forest  to  seek  repose.  A great  serpent 
swung  from  a bough  across  his  path.  There  was 
a fierce  battle,  but  Abdallah  won,  and  the  serpent 
fell  dead  at  his  feet  in  a heap  of  glittering  coils. 
Fearing  to  enter  the  forest,  he  threw  himself  on 
the  grass  and  fell  asleep.  The  sun  stole  on  him 
as  the  hours  waned,  and  when  he  awoke  he  found 
himself  covered  by  a deep  shadow.  Lifting  his 
eyes,  he  beheld  an  enormous  eagle  hovering  over 
him,  and  protecting  him  from  the  sun  with  its 
wings. 

“Thanks,”  said  the  eagle  ; “you  have  put  to 
death  my  enemy,  who  for  many  seasons  has  climbed 
into  my  nest  and  devoured  my  eaglets  : what  ser- 
vice can  I render  you  ?” 

Abdallah  cried  with  joy,  “0  eagle  ! bear  me 
to  my  kingdom  in  the  upper  world.” 

The  eagle  answered,  “Kill  yonder  sheep,  cut 


148 


HASHALLAH ! 


it  in  pieces  and  place  it  on  my  back  ; then  mount 
beside  it ; when  I turn  my  head  to  the  left,  feed 
me,  and  when  I turn  my  head  to  the  right,  feed 
me  ! ” 

Abdallah  did  as  he  was  commanded,  and  with 
one  sweep  of  his  mighty  wings  the  eagle,  spite 
of  his  burden,  sped  swiftly  through  the  air  ! 

chapter  y. 

The  wood  and  the  meadow  grew  shadowy 
under  them  as  they  winged  their  way  through 
space.  By  and  by  the  eagle  turned  his  head  to 
the  left,  and  Abdallah  put  meat  into  his  beak ; 
anon  he  turned  to  the  right,  and  was  fed  again. 

They  soared  on  and  on,  and  the  eagle  was  fed 
until  the  last  morsel  of  flesh  had  disappeared. 
Again,  the  eagle  looked  back  for  food.  In  a mo- 
ment Abdallah  had  seized  his  sword  and  cut  a 
bit  of  flesh  from  his  thigh  ; this  he  gave  his  de- 
liverer, and  they  continued  their  airy  journey. 

When  the  night  was  come  and  gone,  and  it 
was  broad  daylight,  the  eagle  descended  in  the 
edge  of  the  city  where  Abdallah  lived. 

“Abdallah,”  said  the  eagle,  “you  have  fed 
me  with  your  own  flesh  ; replace  it  and  the  wound 
will  heal,”  and  with  that  the  bird  put  out  of  his 
beak  the  flesh  with  which  it  had  been  fed.  “ Take 
also,”  it  added,  “a  feather  from  under  my  wing, 
fasten  it  to  your  spear,  and,  when  you  hunt,  your 
aim  shall  be  fatal.” 


AN  ARABLVN  NIGHT. 


149 


Abdallah  plucked  the  feather  and  bound  up 
his  wound,  and,  when  he  turned  to  thank  his  de- 
liverer, the  black  wings  of  the  bird  were  already 
fading  in  the  heavens. 

CHAPTER  VI. 

When  Abdallah  had  sought  a cafe,  to  regale 
himself  with  the  nargileh  and  the  gossip  of  the 
town,  he  learned  that  on  that  very  day  the  King’s 
elder  son,  his  brother,  would  wed  a mysterious 
fair  lady,  and  that  the  tournament  would  be  more 
splendid  than  any  ever  before  known  in  the  king- 
dom. He  sought  the  arena  at  once.  He  seized 
a javelin,  and  barbed  it  with  his  magic  plume. 
The  King  and  the  fair  lady  sat  in  state.  The 
King’s  sons  entered  the  arena  and  haughtily  chal- 
lenged the  populace.  No  one  responded  but  Ab- 
dallah, who  strode  proudly  to  the  foot  of  the 
throne,  and  prostrated  himself.  The  trumpet 
summoned  to  the  test.  Abdallah  toyed  for  a mo- 
ment with  his  fatal  spear,  and  then  slew  his  an- 
tagonists, one  after  the  other. 

In  a moment  he  made  himself  known  to  his 
royal  father  and  his  bride.  Her  token  was  proof 
of  his  identity,  and  the  marriage  feast,  instead  of 
coming  to  an  untimely  close,  was  prolonged  for 
seven  days  and  seven  nights,  during  which  time 
wine  flowed  as  water  and  all  the  luxuries  of  life 
were  free. 


150 


MASHALLAH ! 


When  the  story  was  ended  we  were  all  silent. 
The  wind  filled  our  sail,  but  we  seemed  scarcely 
to  move  in  the  water,  there  was  such  a stillness 
brooding  over  us.  While  we  were  waiting  for  an 
event  to  unseal  our  lips,  we  were  startled  by  the 
unmistakable  crash  of  timber  and  cries  of  despair 
that  came  to  us  over  the  water.  I had  scarcely 
time  to  turn  to  Yussef,  who  was  still  at  my  side, 
and  cry  “ What  was  that  ? ” when  our  sail  began 
to  swell  and  the  water  to  roar  about  us  in  a mo- 
mentary gale.  The  ropes  were  loosened  imme- 
diately. Every  soul  in  the  ship  was  on  the  alert 
in  ten  seconds,  but  we  had  a narrow  escape. 
These  wind-bolts  fly  out  of  the  mountain  gorges 
and  take  you  when  you  are  least  prepared.  They 
tear  the  great  lateen  sails  from  the  masts,  drive 
smaller  boats  on  shore,  and  sometimes  wreck  the 
heavily  laden  barges  that  trade  between  the  Nile 
ports.  We  escaped  with  only  a little  fright,  but 
our  neighbor  was  damaged  considerably.  Her 
loss  was  our  gain,  as  it  happened.  Had  we  been 
to  windward,  lapped  in  the  lazy  dream  of  the 
“Arabian  Nights,”  we  might  have  seen  our  hun- 
dred and  seventy  feet  of  spar  borne  into  the  air 
like  a winged  javelin,  and  where  would  our  Nubia 
have  been  then,  and  our  cozy  sleep  that  came  a 
little  later  while  we  were  tied  up  under  a high 
bank  waiting  for  sunrise  ? 


EGYPTLVN  VILLAGE  LIFE. 


151 


XY. 

EGYPTIAN  VILLAGE  LIFE. 

Dahabeah  Nitetis,  on  the  Nile. 

The  delicious  days  drift  by  unreckoned.  Hour 
by  hour  we  cast  off  the  customs  of  our  time,  one 
after  another,  and  grow  luxurious  and  sensuous, 
taking  in  the  landscape  as  if  it  were  something 
that  was  provided  for  our  physical  enjoyment. 
The  soul  is  in  a transition  state.  It  sleeps  in  its 
cocoon.  But  in  that  sleep  it  is  putting  forth  new 
wings,  and  the  old  life  of  the  New  World  can  never 
again  seem  to  it  the  same  as  of  yore.  When  a 
man  puts  the  Nile  between  him  and  his  former 
self,  he  has  turned  into  his  heart  a mighty  flood, 
the  secret  sources  of  which  may  be  the  windows 
of  heaven  for  aught  we  know ; and  though  that 
heart  were  as  foul  as  the  Augean  stables,  if  it  be  a 
whole  heart,  it  shall  become  whiter  than  snow. 

We  don’t  give  ourselves  up  to  the  physical  lux- 
ury of  this  inland  voyage  without  suitable  mental 
preparation.  There  are  plenty  of  hooks  built 
expressly  for  these  latitudes.  You  find  them  in 
the  hands  of  every  passenger,  and  the  text  is  the 
chief  subject  under  discussion  at  table,  at  tea,  in 
the  twilight  or  dark,  and  at  frequent  intervals  be- 
tween meals.  Look  at  our  shelves  and  you  will 
see  Herodotus,  Diodorus,  Strabo,  and  Wilkinson’s 


152 


MASHALLAH ! 


“Ancient  Egyptians.”  With  these  romantic 
records  of  the  life  that  was  we  lay  a foundation 
for  a proper  appreciation  of  the  life  that  now  is. 

Here  is  Lane’s  “Modern  Egyptians,”  which 
we  fly  to  as  if  it  was  the  very  Bible  of  Egypt — 
only  we  go  ever  so  much  oftener  inasmuch  as  it 
is  not — “Eothen,”  Curtis’s  “Nile  Notes,”  the 
works  of  Warburton,  Piazzi-Smyth,  Lord  Lindsay, 
Curzon,  Stanley,  Macgregor,  Prime,  and  poor  Lady 
Duff- Gordon,  who  drifted  to  and  fro  over  these 
waters,  year  after  year,  patiently  awaiting  that 
death  that  continually  threatened  her.  We  have 
what  I have  found  the  most  charming  book  of  all, 
the  “Diary”  of  the  late  Harriet  Martineau.  I 
do  not  suppose  we  have  read  one  half  of  these 
books,  but  there  is  a consolation  in  being  supplied 
when  you  are  pushing  out  into  the  undiscovered 
land  ; a land  which  is  as  fresh  to  you  as  if  no  eye 
but  yours  had  been  permitted  to  question  its  won- 
derful hieroglyphics.  We  bury  ourselves  in  the 
depths  of  the  divans  on  deck,  under  the  awning, 
fill  our  laps  with  books,  and  then  turn  our  smoked 
glasses  on  the  shimmering  landscape  and  are  lost 
in  reverie. 

As  the  river  is  continually  bending  to  east 
or  to  west,  we  drift  from  shore  to  shore.  The 
strong  north  wind  bears  us  steadily,  and  often 
very  rapidly,  against  the  powerful  current,  but 
when  the  wind  falls  we  fall  with  it,  and  immedi- 
ately take  to  our  canvas  and  consider  the  pros- 


EGYPTIAN  VILLAGE  LIFE. 


158 


pects.  If  there  is  not  a head  wind  we  are  safe,  for 
we  can  send  our  men  on  shore  and  be  towed  up 
under  the  bank  as  tamely  as  if  this  were  the  Erie 
Canal  instead  of  the  mighty  Nile.  Tacking  is 
hard  work  ; from  ten  to  fifteen  miles  a day  is  all 
we  can  hope  for  in  the  best  of  tacking  weather.  If 
the  wind  is  from  the  south,  there  is  nothing  left 
for  us  but  to  tie  up  to  the  bank  and  wait  for  bet- 
ter luck.  Yet  this  is  by  no  means  bad  luck.  At 
such  times,  unless  there  is  a high  wind  full  of  fly- 
ing sand,  we  go  on  shore  and  walk  for  miles  and 
miles  through  the  green  fields  and  among  the  palm 
groves.  We  are  seldom  alone — all  the  shore  of 
the  Nile  is  thickly  populated.  We  pass  villages 
almost  every  hour,  on  one  side  of  the  river  or  the 
other.  There  are  scattered  houses  under  scat- 
tering palms — the  homes  of  shepherds  and  of 
husbandmen,  and  of  the  slaves  who  toil  night 
and  day  at  the  shadoof,  giving  the  thirsty  earth 
to  drink  from  this  fountain  of  perennial  life. 

There  is  good  shooting  on  either  hand,  and  we 
have  a couple  of  good  shots  to  match  it.  Yussef 
is  ever  ready  for  the  chase,  and  “ Bambino,”  the 
pet  bachelor  of  the  crowd,  can  wing  his  pigeon 
not  infrequently.  When  we  approach  a village 
the  rifles  are  got  in  order,  for  the  shooting  is  im- 
mense in  the  vicinity.  Every  Egyptian  village 
seems  to  have  been  built  solely  for  the  accommo- 
dation of  some  millions  of  pigeons.  Their  houses 
rise  like  towers  about  the  suburbs,  and  are  far 


154 


MASHALLAH ! 


more  imposing  than  the  habitations  of  their  keep- 
ers. The  pigeon  towers  are  built  of  repeated  lay- 
ers of  earthen  pots,  with  the  mouth  on  the  inside 
of  the  tower.  Numerous  dry  branches  are  insert- 
ed in  the  outer  wall  for  perches,  and  the  walls, 
which  are  of  mud,  are  frequently  whitewashed. 
The  birds  are  kept  for  their  guano,  which  is  used 
for  fuel.  One  can  not  burn  trees  on  the  edge  of 
the  desert.  Many  of  the  pigeon  towers  look  not 
unlike  the  pillars  of  old  temples.  They  are  the 
chief  feature  in  every  landscape,  and,  when  we 
look  over  the  palms  that  have  crowded  down  into 
a long  point  in  the  bend  of  the  river  and  see  blue 
clouds  of  pigeons  blown  across  the  sky,  we  listen 
for  the  click  of  Yussef’s  rifle,  and  know  that 
“ Bambino  ” is  meditating  a slaughter  of  the  inno- 
cents. The  Egyptian  pigeon,  when  it  comes  to 
drink,  lights  in  the  Nile  like  a duck  and  rises  like 
a sea-gull.  One  might  easily  slaughter  a half 
bushel  at  a single  broadside,  by  merely  letting  fly 
into  a swarm  of  them  as  they  settle  in  the  wa- 
ter close  to  shore.  We  did  it  once  or  twice,  and 
saved  the  spoils  with  the  aid  of  a half-dozen  little 
naked  Arabs,  who  plunged  in  and  secured  them 
for  us.  Though  our  table  is  seldom  without  pig- 
eon-pie, freshly  stocked  at  almost  every  village 
we  come  to,  no  one  has  as  yet  made  any  objection 
to  our  helping  ourselves  in  consideration  of  a fee 
by  no  means  exorbitant. 

Turning  over  the  pages  of  my  journal,  I am 


EGYPTIAN  VILLAGE  LITE. 


155 


amazed  to  find  how  slight  the  incidents  of  the 
voyage  have  been  thus  far,  and  yet  how  full  of 
lazy  experience.  We  have  taken  several  towns 
by  storm,  and  surprised  the  sleepy  inhabitants 
at  all  hours  of  the  day  and  night.  At  Feshun 
we  came  to  shore  in  splendid  style,  running  up 
so  close  to  the  bank  that  a beetle  might  have 
come  on  board  without  wetting  his  feet.  We 
wanted  milk  and  eggs,  and  some  other  palatable 
trifles,  and  so  we  stopped  for  ten  minutes ; and 
how  we  astonished  the  easy-going  Mussulmans 
with  our  absurd  jollity  ! 

Maghagha,  only  fourteen  miles  farther  up 
stream,  might  have  been  reached  in  a couple  of 
hours,  but  it  wasn’t.  The  wind  dropped ; our 
men  went  on  shore,  took  a long  rope  over  their 
shoulders,  and  tugged  away  for  four  hours.  They 
called  on  their  saints  in  soft,  melancholy  voices, 
that  sounded  to  us  on  board  like  the  drone  of  bees. 
Sometimes  one  of  them  would  let  go  the  rope, 
drop  down  on  the  grassy  bank,  and  refresh  himself 
with  a cigarette.  Sometimes  they  all  came  to  a 
halt  and  squatted  in  a row,  chatting  and  laugh- 
ing and  calling  to  us  in  such  good  humor  that  it 
is  difficult  to  believe  tracking  is  not  the  jolliest 
sport  in  the  world.  Little  puffs  of  wind  spring 
up  from  time  to  time,  and  the  barge  responded  so 
generously  that  we  ran  ahead  of  our  team  on 
shore,  and  they  were  obliged  to  cast  off  the  rope 
and  follow  us  at  a brisk  trot.  The  wind  finally 


156 


MASHALLAH ! 


dodged  ahead  of  us,  and  we  were  booked  for  the 
night.  Maghagha  was  indefinitely  postponed. 

After  hours  of  toil,  when  the  crew  seem  so  fa- 
tigued that  the  man  of  feeling  is  apt  to  have  his 
heart  wrung,  the  toilers  finish  their  duties  and  sit 
down  under  the  big  sail  to  sing  and  laugh,  and 
even  dance  their  fantastic  dances,  as  if  they  were 
in  the  midst  of  a holiday.  Their  good  nature, 
coupled  with  their  willing  spirit,  is  a perpetual 
subject  of  amazement  to  us  all.  With  the  dawn 
we  came  upon  Maghagha  just  in  season  for  the 
morning  milk.  Half  a dozen  girls  brought  bottles 
of  it  to  the  river  bank,  and  awaited  the  passing 
customer  that  was  sure  to  slacken  sail  for  a mo- 
ment or  two  at  least.  At  Minieh  it  was  already 
dark  when  we  tied  up  for  the  night,  but  a proces- 
sion of  lanterns  was  speedily  formed,  and  we  strolled 
through  the  narrow  and  crowded  streets,  which 
were  blockaded  with  bazaars,  and  finally  came 
home  to  the  Nitetis  with  an  escort  of  half  a hun- 
dred Arabs,  big  and  little,  howling  at  our  heels. 

Every  town  furnishes  an  armed  guard  for  the 
protection  of  the  boats  that  lie  by  the  shore  through 
the  night.  There  are  always  two  at  least,  so  that 
one  may  keep  the  other  awake.  They  light  a bon- 
fire and  hover  over  it  these  cool  nights,  and  chal- 
lenge the  specters  that  haunt  their  dreams,  and 
sometimes  startle  us  all,  and  the  whole  village  as 
well,  by  discharging  a rifle  in  the  dead  stillness  of 
the  night.  Ten  thousand  dogs  lift  up  their  voices 


EGYPTIAN  VILLAGE  LIFE. 


157 


in  response,  and  the  night  is  hideous  from  that 
hour.  Indeed,  the  perpetual  harking  chorus  that 
falls  upon  your  ear  as  you  course  the  Nile  is  suffi- 
cient to  lead  you  safely  into  port,  though  it  were 
the  blackest  night  in  Egypt.  That  signal  is  more 
effective  than  forty  fog-whistles. 

There  are  Coptic  convents,  planted  on  the 
shores,  and  so  walled  about  that  no  signs  of  life  are 
visible.  Perhaps  a solitary  palm  stretches  its  head 
above  the  convent  wall  and  waves  its  gray  plumes, 
like  flags  of  distress.  A half-witted  Arab  swam 
out  to  us  three  days  ago,  and  was  on  board  for  an 
hour,  to  the  great  delight  of  the  crew.  This  man, 
who  was  a splendid  specimen  of  physical  develop- 
ment, leaped  into  the  river  some  distance  ahead 
of  us,  and  climbed  over  our  stern  by  the  rudder- 
post.  Then,  unwinding  his  turban,  he  girded  it 
about  his  loins  and  came  forward  to  salute  us. 
Our  old  captain  fell  upon  his  breast  and  kissed 
him  repeatedly.  Every  one  of  the  crew  had  his 
turn  at  the  saint,  for  the  simple  are  thought  sa- 
cred in  this  country.  Having  broken  bread  with 
the  sailors,  who  were  as  happy  as  children  with 
this  new  plaything,  he  again  embraced  them  all, 
put  his  wardrobe  on  top  of  his  head,  and  dropped 
overboard.  When  we  last  saw  him  he  was  strug- 
gling with  the  strong  current,  which  the  Arabs 
fear,  but,  as  he  was  an  excellent  swimmer,  he  surely 
reached  the  shore  in  safety.  At  several  villages 
we  met  these  sacred  idiots,  who  are  always  highly 


158 


MASHALLAH ! 


esteemed.  They  frequently  bear  around  with  them 
the  turban  or  a fragment  of  some  garment  of  a 
dead  saint.  'Wrapping  this  about  a long  staff,  they 
beg  from  town  to  town.  On  one  occasion  a wo- 
man followed  us  for  half  a mile,  running  along 
the  shore  with  a sheik’s  relic  on  a pole.  She 
was  rewarded  with  a liberal  contribution  of  black 
bread  which  the  crew  tossed  over  the  water  to  her. 
Nor  do  we  lack  other  visitors  these  days.  Wives 
and  mothers  of  the  male  relatives  of  the  crew  make 
their  appearance  at  the  lucky  moment,  and  we  run 
into  shore  to  allow  our  sailor-boys  a brief  embrace. 

Dahabeahs  salute  us,  and  we  have  grown  indif- 
ferent to  their  salutations.  We  begin  to  realize 
that  we  were  a set  of  very  enthusiastic  Americans, 
as  unused  to  the  Nile  as  possible,  during  that  first 
exciting  week  of  the  voyage.  At  present  we  are 
as  indifferent  as  any  one  on  the  river  ; yet  we  have 
exchanged  visits  with  some  few  strangers  who 
chanced  to  come  to  land  at  the  same  time  and  place 
with  us.  Our  second  captain  sustains  the  reputa- 
tion of  our  ship  for  amiability.  He  has  a line  of 
wives  along  the  whole  Nile  coast.  They  are  lo- 
cated at  convenient  intervals,  and  nothing  but  a 
head  wind  can  interrupt  the  continuous  joy  of  his 
domestic  life.  If  we  find  that  we  are  losing  the 
best  part  of  a stiff  breeze  ; if  we  are  ashore  when 
we  should  be  afloat ; if  we  are  apparently  hunting 
up  all  the  sandbars  in  the  river  and  hanging  to 
them  as  we  never  hung  before,  we  know  that  the 


EGYPTIAN  VILLAGE  LIFE. 


159 


second  captain  has  repaired  to  some  bosom  or 
other  of  his  family,  and  that  the  man  at  the  mast- 
head may  cry  “Rais  Mustapha  !”  till  his  throat 
splits  and  the  winds  are  weary  with  his  crying, 
but  that  second  captain  will  salute  the  “ light  of 
his  harem  ” with  as  much  deliberation  as  if  there 
were  but  one  of  her. 

And  so  we  come  to  Siout,  the  capital  of  Up- 
per Egypt,  two  hundred  and  fifty  miles  from 
Cairo  ; Siout,  successor  to  the  ancient  Lycopolis, 
“ the  city  of  the  wolves  ” ; Siout,  with  its  four- 
teen minarets ; its  choice  bazaars,  than  which 
even  Cairo  has  few  finer  ; its  groves  of  palm  and 
sycamore  and  acacias ; its  camels  that  swing 
through  the  narrow  streets,  laden  with  bales  of  rich 
goods,  and  drive  you  to  the  wall  as  if  a Christian 
had  no  rights  in  a city  of  five-and-twenty  thousand 
souls,  but  a single  thousand  of  whom  are  Chris- 
tians. The  clay  pipe-bowls  of  Siout  are  world-fa- 
mous. You  see  the  skillful  workmen  in  the  ba- 
zaars molding  the  soft  clay  into  dainty  shapes  and 
staining  them  with  scarlet  dyes.  You  see  the 
treasures  that  are  brought  by  caravan  from  Dar- 
foor  and  the  very  heart  of  Africa.  You  breathe 
the  perfumes  of  Arabia,  and  your  soul  is  satisfied 
with  the  sight  of  latticed  windows  and  dark  flash- 
ing eyes ; with  handsome  men  and  lovely  boys, 
such  as  the  Arabian  poets  celebrate  in  sonnets  ; 
with  mosques  and  open  courts  cooled  by  babbling 
fountains,  and  by  the  picturesque  life  of  the  East 


160 


MASHALLAH ! 


■which  is  so  well  displayed  here.  Then  you  get 
out  of  the  city  through  winding  streets  nearly 
roofed  over  by  the  houses  that  lean  toward  one 
another,  and  dodge  a second  camel  with  its  cum- 
brous freights.  (Do  you  remember  how  Amina 
made  excuse  for  the  wound  in  her  cheek  when  the 
young  merchant  kissed  her  too  savagely  ? Turn 
over  your  Arabian  tales,  and  when  found,  etc.) 
And,  crossing  the  green  meadows  of  the  Nile,  you 
climb  the  cliffs  above  the  town  and  muse  on  the 
historic  tombs  beneath  you.  Here  the  ancient 
Christians  found  sanctuary ; here  the  prophetic 
John  of  Lycopolis  dwelt  above  fifty  years  in  a cell 
“without  once  opening  the  door,  without  seeing 
the  face  of  a woman,  without  tasting  any  food 
that  had  been  prepared  by  fire  or  any  human  art.” 
At  your  feet  lies  the  lovely  town,  submerged  in 
its  green  garden.  As  far  as  the  eye  can  reach  the 
broad  Nile  turns  again  and  again,  casting  a green 
shadow  into  the  desert,  the  desert  that  like  a sea 
flows  to  this  green  shore,  its  tawny  waves  burst- 
ing through  the  walls  of  the  City  of  Sepulchres, 
close  at  hand,  submerging  half  the  tombs  in  sand. 
Away  yonder,  over  the  rim  of  the  horizon,  there 
are  island  oases,  but  who  shall  find  them  save  the 
Bedawee,  who  have  a mariner’s  knowledge  of  the 
stars  ? 

The  breath  of  evening  ascends  to  us,  sweet  with 
the  odor  of  oranges  and  limes ; it  comes  to  us 
over  the  sandy  waste  at  the  foot  of  the  crags, 


TEMPLES  AND  TOMBS. 


1G1 


where  there  are  skulls  bleaching  and  a litter  of 
human  hones,  but  the  sand  and  the  winds  and  the 
jackals  have  cleansed  them  of  all  impurities,  and 
they  are  no  longer  even  ugly  to  look  at.  In  this 
Egyptian  Eden,  under  the  shadow  of  this  hermit- 
haunted  hill,  tradition  whispers  that  the  early 
youth  of  our  Lord  was  passed  after  the  flight  from 
Palestine. 


XYI. 

TEMPLES  AND  TOMBS. 

Dahabeah  Nitetis,  on  the  Nile. 

What  would  I not  give  could  1 again  expe- 
rience the  emotion  I felt  at  my  first  sight  of  an 
Egyptian  temple ! Fortunately  the  dusk  had 
thrown  a veil  over  us,  and  in  the  exquisite  deli- 
cacy of  the  fading  light  we  drifted  slowly  up  the 
mysterious  river  through  the  dreamy  land,  and  saw 
on  the  eastern  shore  a cluster  of  immense  columns 
towering  against  the  sky.  I believe  we  passed  it 
without  uttering  a syllable.  The  serene  silence  of 
the  evening  was  intensified  by  the  solemnity  of 
this  ruin,  and,  as  we  were  borne  away  from  it  be- 
fore the  gentle  breeze,  we  heard  from  time  to  time 
the  plunging  of  some  object  in  the  river,  the 
splash  of  the  water,  and  then  all  was  silent  again. 
Later  we  grew  so  familiar  with  this  sound  that  it 
11 


162 


MASHALLAH ! 


ceased  to  attract  any  comment  whatever.  It  was 
the  tribute  of  the  earth  to  the  inexorable  current 
of  the  stream.  From  year  to  year  the  river  changes 
its  course.  Eating  away  the  shore  on  the  one 
hand,  it  deposits  a soft  bed  of  soil  on  some  sandy 
bar,  and  there  the  watchful  husbandman — who 
keeps  his  finger  on  the  pulse  of  the  river  and  notes 
every  change  in  it,  even  the  slightest — lays  open 
the  furrows  in  this  new  gift  of  the  bountiful  Nile, 
and  in  a few  days  the  sun  is  magnetizing  the 
young  shoots  of  the  cucumbers  and  melons  that 
will  presently  have  stretched  their  slender  stems 
to  the  water’s  edge.  The  Nile  is  wearing  away  the 
bank  below  this  temple,  Kom  Umhoo,  and  by  and 
by  those  superb  columns,  that  have  stood  there  in 
their  desert  solitude  for  thousands  of  years,  will 
bow  their  lofty  capitals  and  topple  over  into  the 
stream.  Again  and  again  we  come  upon  villages 
that  have  been  undermined.  Houses  that  were 
built  at  a reasonable  remove  from  the  water  have 
lost  their  outer  walls,  and  stand  on  the  brink  of 
total  destruction  with  their  shattered  chambers 
open  to  the  sun.  Like  a great  serpent,  the  river 
unfolds  its  glistening  amber  coils  as  it  creeps 
through  the  valley,  swaying  from  side  to  side. 
Sometimes  it  flows  under  abrupt  cliffs  that  are 
perforated  with  mummy  chambers,  tier  upon  tier. 
It  is  often  difficult  to  climb  the  steep  walls  of  the 
mountain,  and  enter  these  tombs  ; nor  is  it  profit- 
able in  many  instances,  for  the  caves  are  despoiled 


TEMPLES  AND  TOMBS. 


163 


of  their  antique  treasures,  and  are  now  half  filled 
with  sand  and  haunted  by  clouds  of  filthy  bats. 

The  tombs  of  Beni  Hassan  are  cut  in  one  of 
the  hard  strata  of  a hill  that  lies  to  the  east  of 
the  Nile  bank,  about  a mile  distant.  The  river 
once  flowed  much  closer  to  the  base  of  the  hill, 
but  has  turned  back  again  into  the  plain,  and  left 
a deposit  of  rich  soil  that  is  just  now  covered  with 
waving  grain,  breast-high,  as  we  plow  through  it 
on  our  donkeys,  and  is  of  the  most  brilliant  green. 
As  we  threaded  palm  groves,  and  hailed  each 
other  over  the  grain  that  was  tossing  in  the  wind, 
and  rolling  green  billows  from  end  to  end  across 
the  broad  fields,  we  were  cautioned  by  our  con- 
siderate donkey-boys  to  keep  a discreet  silence, 
inasmuch  as  this  district  has  a bad  reputation, 
and  has  long  been  infested  by  Bedawee  brigands. 
Up  one  of  the  lonely  gorges  of  the  hills  we  actu- 
ally saw  the  black  tents  of  the  tribe,  but  no  one 
sought  to  molest  us.  They  were  less  fortunate 
who  visited  the  grottoes  in  former  years,  and  so 
incorrigible  had  the  Beni  Hassanites  become  that 
the  Ibrahim  Pasha  caused  the  whole  village  to  be 
destroyed.  It  looked  like  a small  edition  of  Pom- 
peii, as  we  rode  through  it  on  our  return  from  the 
tombs. 

The  houses  were  all  roofless,  windows  and 
doors  wide  open,  many  walls  entirely  thrown 
down,  and  the  whole  a picture  of  melancholy 
desolation.  We  rode  single-file  through  the  ruins, 


164 


MASHALLAH ! 


picking  our  way  among  mud  blocks  and  frag- 
ments of  wall  nearly  as  large  as  our  donkeys. 
Several  times  we  passed  directly  through  houses, 
in  at  one  door  and  out  at  the  other.  No  one 
thinks  of  restoring  any  part  of  the  old  village ; 
in  fact,  the  survivors  are  more  pleasantly  situated 
in  a fine  palm-grove  a couple  of  miles  removed 
from  the  ruin.  The  grottoes  of  Beni  Hassan  are, 
next  to  the  Pyramids,  the  oldest  known  monu- 
ments in  Egypt.  The  fact  scarcely  suggests  itself 
as  you  enter  these  chambers,  hewn  out  of  the  solid 
rock,  plastered  and  elaborately  frescoed.  The 
colors  are  almost  as  bright  to-day  as  they  were 
when  the  artist — who,  by  the  way,  has  been  mum- 
mified these  fifty  centuries — concluded  his  con- 
tract and  drew  his  ducats.  On  a background  of 
the  most  delicate  shades  of  green  there  are  infinite 
multitudes  of  figures,  portraying  all  the  manners 
and  customs  of  that  ancient  life.  Even  then 
there  must  have  been  dwellings  of  pretentious 
architecture,  for  they  are  imitated  here.  Stone 
architraves  extend  from  column  to  column.  Pos- 
sibly, at  that  time,  it  was  thought  impossible  to 
sustain  a roof  without  them,  though  it  were  a 
mountain  over  your  head.  A little  later,  as  in 
the  tombs  at  Thebes,  the  architraves  are  omitted. 
Here  stand  columns  hewn  out  of  the  living  rock 
in  the  earliest  Egyptian  style.  Naturally,  they 
are  copies  from  nature — the  stalks  of  four  water 
plants  bound  together  and  crowned  with  lotus  or 


TEMPLES  AND  TOMBS. 


165 


papyrus  buds.  It  is  miraculous  that  any  part  of 
these  tombs  is  left,  save  the  bare  hollow,  inasmuch 
as  the  painting  may  be  easily  effaced,  the  plaster 
removed  in  slices,  and  the  rock  itself  cut  with 
the  blade  of  a penknife.  The  insignifiqant  names 
that  one  is  sure  to  stumble  upon,  where  they  are 
least  worthy  to  be  found,  have  begun  to  creep 
over  the  delicate  paintings  in  these  tombs ; and 
now  that  Egyptian  travel  has  become  so  common, 
and  tourists  go  about  in  herds,  like  cattle  seeking 
where  they  may  browse,  and  in  all  cases  leaving 
their  tracks  behind  them,  in  a few  years  these 
records  of  the  earliest  art  of  the  earth  that  has 
been  preserved  to  us  will  have  entirely  disappeared. 

Turning  the  leaves  of  my  Nile  journal,  I find 
many  a passage  that  properly  belongs  to  the  story 
of  the  Nile,  but  as  I read  them,  one  after  the 
other,  they  seem  so  much  alike  that  I throw  them 
aside  in  despair.  Doubtless  the  river  life  is  mo- 
notonous, yet  it  never  wearies  me.  What  if  I 
record,  day  after  day,  the  morning  mists,  its 
saffron-tinted  east,  its  silvery  west  still  under  the 
sweet  influence  of  the  declining  moon  ; the  river, 
like  crystal,  with  its  shores  in  deepest  shadow  and 
its  dark  palms  reversed  in  the  watery  mirror,  as 
black  as  ebony  ? Then  the  bright,  the  white  light 
of  the  day,  and  the  lazy  hours  with  book  and 
pipe  under  the  awning  on  the  breezy  deck ; the 
divine  twilight,  when  the  whole  race  gathers  at 
the  cool  margin  of  the  river  to  refresh  itself  after 


166 


HASHALLAH ! 


the  heat  of  the  day.  Ugly  buffaloes  stand  up  to 
their  nostrils  in  water,  tossing  the  spray  over  their 
heads. . Naked  children  sport  among  them  like 
young  water-gods.  The  Arabian  heat ; an  after- 
noon of  deep  and  dreamless  sleep  ; a twilight  that 
keeps  me  from  dinner,  with  palm-groves  jutting 
out  into  the  river ; still,  shadowy  barges  bound- 
ing over  the  face  of  the  waters,  and  soft  songs 
that  waken  an  echo  in  the  heart  and  haunt  me 
almost  every  hour.  At  Mineh,  in  the  dusk,  there 
was  a mosque  full  of  chanting  boys  and  loud- 
sighing  dervishes,  and  a sheik’s  tomb  lit  with 
a hundred  lamps  from  within,  and  looking  like  a 
roc’s  egg  poised  on  end.  It  was  inexpressibly 
lovely,  but  a disagreeable  odor  drove  us  out  from 
under  the  shore,  and  we  drifted  down  stream 
among  sand  shoals,  noisy  with  deep  - throated 
Egyptian  frogs,  who  snored  hideously  all  night. 

The  majority  of  the  temples  of  Egypt  stand  so 
near  the  Nile  shore  that  they  are  plainly  visible 
from  the  deck  of  our  dahabeah.  At  morning  or 
at  evening  we  see  a superb  monument  in  the  dim 
distance.  If  the  wind  is  fair,  we  draw  rapidly 
toward  it,  and  in  an  hour  or  two  find  the  Nitetis 
running  up  to  the  nearest  point  from  which  the 
temple  may  be  visited.  Two  or  three  of  the 
sailors  leap  ashore,  drive  in  our  portable  stakes, 
and  make  fast.  After  this  feat  is  accomplished 
they  usually  squat  on  the  bank  in  a row,  light 
their  cigarettes,  chat,  sing,  wander  off  into  the 


TEMPLES  AND  TOMBS. 


167 


fields  to  gather  lentils  and  eat  them  with  huge 
relish  ; it  is  their  play-time  ; it  is  our  task,  for  we 
at  once  begin  preparing  for  the  exploration  of  the 
temples,  lest  a fair  breeze  tempt  us  to  hasten  on 
and  omit  this  pleasing  duty  until  our  return  voy- 
age. Usually  we  take  donkeys  to  carry  us  to  the 
site  of  the  ruins.  Too  often  these  little  beasts  are 
utterly  unfit  to  carry  any  burden.  Their  hacks 
are  raw  ; their  stirrupless  saddles  are  tied  on  with 
odd  bits  of  cord,  or,  perhaps,  are  merely  balanced 
on  the  sharp  backs  of  the  unhappy  creatures,  with- 
out any  fastenings  whatever.  We  have  all  taken 
our  turn  at  plunging  headlong  into  the  sand,  and 
fortunately  have  each  escaped  without  injury. 

Over  dusty  roads,  through  broad  fields  of  grain, 
under  palm-groves  and  along  the  edges  of  mud 
villages,  we  crouch  in  the  heat  of  the  sun,  and 
reach  at  last,  with  unfeigned  joy,  the  propylon. 
It  was  not  yet  sunrise  when  we  came  to  the  gates 
of  Edfoo,  one  of  the  best-preserved  temples  of 
the  Nile.  The  air  was  still  fresh,  for  these  nights 
are  deliciously  cool.  The  great  courts  with  their 
sculptured  columns,  the  numerous  chambers 
sacred  to  the  ancient  rites  of  the  temple  worship, 
the  massive  wall  that  incloses  it — all  these  un- 
marred relics  of  a mighty  race  impressed  silence 
upon  us,  and  we  paced  reverently  the  immense 
hall,  where  we  appeared  ridiculously  small  in 
comparison.  Our  torches  brought  out  the  color 
that  still  enlivens  the  sculpture,  though  much  of 


168 


MASHALLAH  ! 


that  color  and  even  some  of  the  sculpturing  have 
been  obliterated  by  the  thick  smoke  of  the  in- 
numerable torches  that  have  been  burned  here  for 
generations  past.  One  little  fellow,  who  was  look- 
ing forward  to  a suitable  reward  in  the  future, 
followed  us  from  hall  to  hall  and  lit  matches  from 
time  to  time,  holding  them  aloft  with  as  much 
gravity  as  if  they  were  really  capable  of  throwing 
some  light  on  the  hieroglyphics  that  cover  the 
temple  in  every  part.  Leaning  from  the  lofty 
capital  of  the  eastern  pylon,  the  prospect  was 
glorious — the  temple  court  beneath  us  ; flocks  of 
doves  darting  to  and  fro  among  the  columns  of 
the  court,  showing  us  their  pale-blue  backs  ; the 
green  lawns,  as  soft  as  velvet,  stretching  to  the 
amber  Nile  on  the  one  hand  and  the  desert  hills 
on  the  other ; the  village,  with  its  open  houses, 
half  of  them  unroofed,  or  only  partly  thatched 
with  palm  boughs,  all  huddled  close  together  un- 
der the  high  walls  of  the  temple. 

When  the  sun  rose  this  village  came  to  life, 
and  there  was  a chorus  of  backsheesh  raised  by  a 
multitude  of  baby  Arabs,  who  danced  boisterously 
and  cried  to  us  incessantly  as  if  we  were  indeed 
the  gods.  The  town  of  Keneh,  with  its  famous 
water  jars,  lies  opposite  Denderah,  a temple  as 
perfect  as  Edfoo,  though  smaller.  It  has  once 
been  buried,  and  is  still  so  deep  in  the  soil  that 
you  can  touch  the  capitals  as  you  walk  around 
the  outer  wall,  and  to  enter  the  temple  is  like 


TEMPLES  AND  TOMBS. 


169 


descending  into  an  enormous  cellar.  It  is  only  at 
Denderah  and  Edfoo  that  I have  been  able  to  real- 
ize anything  of  the  life  of  these  temples.  They 
are  so  utterly  dead,  so  cruelly  ruined,  and  their 
age  is  so  inconceivable,  that  I find  myself  wander- 
ing about  them  in  a state  of  utter  disbelief.  It  is 
difficult  enough  to  believe  your  eyes — you  can  not 
hope  to  do  more  than  that — and  the  eyes  see  only 
the  dust-covered,  dust-colored  sanctuary  of  a race 
and  a religion  that  are  returned  to  dust.  At  Ed- 
foo, leaning  from  that  eastern  pylon  and  dream- 
ing over  the  record  of  the  temple  that  was  five-and- 
ninety  years  in  coming  to  completion,  I seemed 
to  see  for  just  one  moment  the  splendid  ceremoni- 
als of  the  dedication,  when  rivers  of  wine  actually 
flooded  the  court,  perfumed  oils  freighted  the  air, 
and  men  and  women  gave  themselves  up  to  the 
lascivious  rites  of  the  feast  for  days  together.  As 
I thought  of  this  I looked  about  me  and  saw  every 
stone  in  its  place,  and  then  I was  convinced. 

At  Esneh  a temple  stands  in  the  midst  of  a 
squalid  village,  and  is  buried  to  the  roof  in  earth. 
One  grows  indifferent  to  ruins  that  are  not  impres- 
sive in  a land  that  has  so  great  a store  of  the  won- 
derful. Esneh,  therefore,  half  covered  with  mud 
huts  that  hang  upon  it  like  wasps’  nests,  was 
rather  disappointing,  and  we  lounged  through  the 
village  until  Michel  should  have  finished  his  mar- 
keting. The  sun  was  intensely  hot,  the  air  filled 
with  dust,  and  the  day  a nervous  one.  Even  the 


170 


MASHALLAH ! 


Ghawazes,  who  have  given  fame  to  the  village, 
fail  now  to  attract.  The  bazaars  were  faintly  per- 
fumed with  rose-attar  ; naked  children,  with  dis- 
tended stomachs,  followed  us  through  the  narrow, 
filthy  streets,  begging,  and  when  we  turned  on 
them  they  fled  in  utmost  confusion.  We  paused  at 
an  open  door  for  a moment.  Four  women  crouched 
in  a lonely  room  wailing  for  the  dead.  All  hut 
one  of  these  mourners  ceased  as  we  approached, 
and  turned  tearful  eyes  upon  us.  Then  they 
stretched  forth  a hand  and  murmured  “ Back- 
sheesh ! ” Their  jaws  were  dropped,  and  they 
looked  the  picture  of  despair ; but  their  natural 
instinct  was  too  much  for  them,  and  they  whis- 
pered “ Backsheesh.”  The  fourth  woman  was 
bowed  down  in  the  corner  with  her  forehead 
turned  to  the  wall.  She  took  not  the  slightest 
notice  of  us.  There  was  surely  some  truth  in  her 
sorrow.  While  we  idled  about  the  town  an  addi- 
tion was  made  to  our  passenger  list,  a small  gray 
monkey,  who  grew  homesick  immediately,  and 
looked  back  to  shore  with  the  roundest  and  most 
serious  eyes  conceivable.  After  dark  we  drifted 
away  from  Esneh,  while  its  black  profile  was  out- 
lined against  the  west,  dotted  with  a few  twink- 
ling lights.  Everybody,  men,  women,  and  chil- 
dren, seemed  to  he  singing  with  melancholy  voices. 
Our  crew  began  their  river  song,  as  if  music  was 
infectious,  and  in  the  intervals  the  voices  from 
the  almost  invisible  shore  responded  as  long  as 


TEMPLES  AND  TOMBS. 


171 


the  light  breeze  and  the  unruffled  river  were  able 
to  bear  their  mournful  melody.  Out  of  the  dark 
that  evening  came  these  lines  to  relieve  the  mo- 
notony of  my  journal : 

FOR  A SIGN. 

Loafing  along  the  Nile  bank 
As  lonesome  as  I could  be, 

The  twilight  deepened  among  the  palms, 

The  river  spread  like  a sea. 

I heard  the  cry  of  the  night-bird, 

The  peevish  and  pitiful  cry ; 

The  barges  opened  their  great  white  wings, 

And  silently  drifted  by. 

The  soft  air  breathed  upon  me, 

And  marvelous  music  it  bore ; 

’Twas  the  mellow  trill  of  the  rustic  flutes 
Blown  off  from  the  farther  shore. 

Looking  across  the  water, 

I laughed  aloud  in  my  glee — 

For  out  of  the  lap  of  the  purple  west 
A young  star  winked  at  me. 

A young,  fair  star,  and  lonely, 

That  seemed  to  wink  and  to  smile, 

And  to  fish  for  me  with  a golden  thread 
Dropped  into  the  mighty  Nile. 

And  I said  to  myself  that  moment, 

While  watching  its  track  of  light — 

I will  never  feel  lost  in  the  desert  again 
With  this  pillar  of  fire  by  night! 


172 


MASHALLAH ! 


XVII. 

THEBES. 

D AH  ABE  AH  NlTETIS,  ON  THE  XlLE. 

It  was  with  a tinge  of  regret  that  I looked 
oyer  the  plains  on  the  evening  of  our  arrival  at 
Luxor — the  port  of  Thebes — and  saw  the  golden 
columns  of  the  most  marvelous  ruin  in  the  world 
flush  in  the  lurid  sunset,  and  then  fade  into  a 
twilight  that  was  presently  glorified  by  the  pres- 
ence of  the  mellow  Egyptian  moon  a little  past 
the  full.  There  was  such  pleasure  in  anticipating 
the  exploration  of  Thebes,  knowing  that  after 
that  nothing  on  the  Nile  would  affect  us  to  the 
same  degree,  inasmuch  as  all  else  suffers  by  com- 
parison ; there  was  such  satisfaction  in  the  thought 
that  we  had  not  yet  reached  the  climax,  that  we 
must  still  “ season  our  admiration  for  a while,” 
that  when  we  swept  up  to  the  steep  bank  at 
Luxor,  and  were  received  with  a discharge  of 
musketry  from  the  four  Consular  Agents,  as  well 
as  salutes  from  several  dahabeahs  that  had  arrived 
before  us,  my  spirit  faltered,  and  I regretted  that 
the  hour  had  come  so  soon.  Our  crew  gave  three 
hearty  cheers  and  a “tiger,”  for  they  knew  well 
enough  that  one  of  the  several  sheep  presented  to 
them  during  the  voyage  was  to  be  forthcoming 
at  Luxor,  for  mutton,  though  offered  up  a daily 


THEBES. 


173 


sacrifice  at  our  table,  is  a luxury  in  the  forecastle, 
where  lentils  and  black  bread  comprise  the  usual 
bill  of  fare. 

Some  of  my  fellow  voyagers  hastened  on  shore 
before  dinner,  and  returned  from  the  Consulate 
laden  with  home  letters  and  home  papers.  I had 
purposely  cut  myself  off  from  communication 
with  the  world,  though  the  sight  of  the  telegraph 
poles  that  follow  the  Nile  into  Nubia  are  a contin- 
ual assurance  of  the  utter  hopelessness  of  trying 
to  forget  it.  In  the  midst  of  the  stupendous 
ruins  that  lie  on  both  sides  of  the  river,  with  the 
unveiled  mysteries  of  the  temple  worship  spreading 
away  to  the  “ Libyan  suburb,”  and  the  Colossi 
sitting  alone  in  the  meadow  awaiting  the  dawn, 
Ave  forgot  all  else  and  buried  ourselves  in  a wilder- 
ness of  letters  and  papers,  forgetful  of  everything 
but  home. 

The  morning  brought  us  to  a realizing  sense 
of  our  condition.  Very  early  we  were  rowed 
over  the  river  by  our  men,  and  there  found  a 
small  regiment  of  donkeys  awaiting  our  arrival. 
There  was  the  usual  excitement  among  the  don- 
key boys.  Each  little  fellow  was  determined  to 
secure  an  engagement  for  the  day,  and  in  his 
eagerness  to  get  ahead  of  his  rivals  he  backed  his 
diminutive  beast  right  under  us  in  some  cases, 
and  we  found  to  our  amazement  that  we  were 
mounted  in  spite  of  ourselves.  We  set  forth  in 
a body,  but,  as  the  beasts  varied  materially  in 


174 


MASHALLAH ! 


strength,  agility,  and  good  spirits,  we  were  soon 
scattered  along  a strip  of  desert  in  which  our  poor 
little  burden-bearers  sank  up  to  their  knees.  Then 
we  were  ferried,  donkeys  and  all,  over  a canal, 
and  remounted  on  the  opposite  shore,  where  we 
at  once  struck  off  into  the  green  meadows  that 
stretch  to  the  base  of  the  hills,  and  are  submerged 
during  the  Nile  overflow. 

In  the  midst  of  this  meadow  stand  the  Co- 
lossi. I might  have  seen  them  a thousand  times 
before,  they  were  so  familiar.  Their  stately  forms 
stood  out  against  the  Libyan  hills,  dark  shad- 
ows thrown  across  a background  as  bare  as  glass, 
and  of  a baked-brick  color.  I believe  we  all 
rode  around  these  giant  idols,  said  several  amus- 
ing things,  and  having  waited  while  a small  Nu- 
bian climbed  into  the  lap  of  the  “vocal  Mem- 
non,”  and  tapped  the  rock  with  his  hammer  to 
show  us  how  the  ancients  were  cheated  by  a whee- 
dling priesthood  (see  Murray  and  the  majority  of 
his  disciples),  we  galloped  away  to  wander  from 
one  temple  to  another,  and  from  tomb  to  tomb  till 
sunset.  It  would  he  an  impertinence  in  me  to  at- 
tempt a description  of  these  temples  and  tombs.  I 
note  only  the  impression  they  made  on  me.  What 
more  can  any  one  hope  to  do  at  this  late  day  ? 
Of  the  vast  number  of  volumes  treating  of  Egypt, 
very  many  of  which  I have  been  fortunate  enough 
to  have  access  to,  there  is  one  writer  who  has 
afforded  me  more  pleasure  than  all  the  others.  I 


THEBES. 


175 


find  her  volumes  the  most  interesting,  the  most 
accurate,  the  most  profitable  books  on  Egypt  and 
Syria  that  a tourist  can  procure,  and  these  are 
the  works  of  the  late  Harriet  Martineau,  whom  the 
“ Ho  wad  ji,”  with  his  pen  dipped  in  honey  and 
his  mouth  full  of  dates,  is  pleased  to  call  “the 
poet  Harriet.” 

It  would  be  difficult  to  sustain  one’s  enthu- 
siasm at  the  exclamatory  pitch  long  enough  to 
exhaust  the  wonders  of  Thebes.  The  eyes  grow 
weary,  the  mind  becomes  confused  long  before 
the  first  day  is  ended ; yet  day  after  day  we 
return  to  the  siege,  and  always  with  the  same 
question  on  our  lips : ‘ If  Thebes  in  ruins  can 
amaze  us  beyond  expression,  what  must  she  have 
been  in  the  climax  of  her  glory  ? Where  the  col- 
umns are  still  standing,  sculptured  from  base  to 
capital,  stained  with  delicate  hut  indelible  tints, 
and  roofed  over  with  stone  painted  like  the  blue 
heaven,  “fretted  with  golden  stars,”  we  realize 
that  this  temple  needs  only  to  he  thronged  with 
worshipers  in  suitable  costume  to  reproduce  in  a 
great  degree  the  ancient  life  of  the  East.  The 
ludicrous  spectacle  of  a party  of  modern  tourists 
in  cork  helmets,  puggeries,  white  cotton  umbrel- 
las, and  green  goggles  strutting  among  the  ruins 
of  an  Egyptian  temple  is  perhaps  without  a paral- 
lel in  the  annals  of  our  time.  It  would  enrage 
me  to  have  this  vision  continually  before  my  eyes 
were  I not  conscious  that  I am,  myself,  quite  as 


176 


MASHALLAn ! 


out  of  place  as  the  rest  of  my  fellows,  and  this 
conviction  utterly  humiliates  me  and  fills  me  with 
a settled  melancholy.  It  occurs  to  me  sometimes 
that  we  must  be  a spectacle  calculated  to  draw 
tears  to  the  eyes  of  the  gods  who  were  once  rev- 
erenced on  these  shores.  We  crawl  about  the  tem- 
ple walls  and  chip  ofE  our  specimens,  giving  in 
exchange  for  these  keepsakes  a vast  amount  of 
sentiment,  mingled  with  pity  for  the  bull-wor- 
shipers who  created  them.  Possibly,  the  ancients, 
whose  imaginations  conceived,  whose  incompre- 
hensible art  achieved  these  marvelous  monuments, 
might  have  more  compassion  on  us  were  they  to 
visit  our  recent  attempts  at  architectural  display, 
but  they  would  certainly  be  excusable  if  they  were 
to  ignore  us  entirely.  At  the  Memnonium  there 
is  a prostrate  statue  of  a king  weighing  nearly 
nine  hundred  tons.  On  such  a scale  of  grandeur 
as  this  did  the  Egyptians  build  ; and  the  havoc 
that  has  been  dealt  among  the  temples  can  only 
be  attributed  to  a violent  convulsion  of  nature. 
Columns  have  fallen  without  a noticeable  scar 
save  such  as  would  have  been  inevitable  in  the 
fall  of  so  ponderous  a body.  Other  columns 
have  toppled  over  and  been  caught  and  held  in  a 
slanting  position.  Great  blocks  of  stone  have 
fallen  from  the  roof,  others  are  partly  displaced, 
but  there  are  no  evidences  of  mutilation  save  such 
as  are  to  be  found  wherever  tourists  are  allowed 
their  full  liberty. 


THEBES. 


177 


Among  the  ruins  of  “ hundred-gated  Thebes” 
the  Arabs  have  built  like  wasps.  Their  mud 
houses  are  on  the  very  roofs  of  the  temples — 
houses  that  are  now  deserted,  for  after  a few  gen- 
erations these  fragile  tenements  begin  to  crumble, 
and  are  left  empty,  like  last  year’s  nests.  The 
mud  villages  are  a strange  contrast  to  the  majes- 
tic ruins  and  the  splendid  art  depicted  on  their 
walls.  Over  the  figure  of  Rameses  I,  you  read  this 
inscription  : “The  good  God  ; Lord  of  the  world  ; 
son  of  the  sun  ; Lord  of  the  powerful,  Rameses, 
deceased,  esteemed  by  the  great  God,  Lord  of 
Abydos  ” — and  the  Lord  of  Abydos  was  the 
mighty  Osiris  ! Beggars  follow  us  among  the 
ruins  persistently  ; blind  and  decrepit  old  men  who 
are  led  by  long  poles  held  in  the  hands  of  boys  ; 
deformed  people,  girls  with  jars  of  water,  dog 
your  steps  ; tiresome  venders  of  antiquities  spread 
out  their  wares  at  your  feet  and  cry  to  you  inces- 
santly. Even  the  flight  up  the  wild  and  desolate 
gorge  to  the  tombs  of  the  kings  in  the  Libyan 
hills  was  only  a brief  escape  from  the  importuni- 
ties of  these  begging  tribes.  We  thought  we  had 
escaped,  for  we  found  we  were  not  followed  ; but, 
when  we  arrived  at  the  galleries  of  the  tombs,  the 
whole  community  of  beggars,  water-carriers,  and 
peddlers  of  antiquities  solemnly  rose  in  a body  to 
receive  us.  They  had  climbed  over  the  hill  in 
the  intense  heat  and  gained  on  us  by  a full  half 
hour. 


12 


178 


MASHALLAH ! 


The  tombs,  for  the  most  part,  are  shafts  sunk 
three  or  four  hundred  feet  into  the  heart  of  the 
hill,  with  an  easy  decline  to  the  very  bottom. 
The  smooth  walls  are  plastered  and  elaborately 
frescoed.  A multitude  of  small  chambers  open 
out  on  each  side  of  the  long  hall  in  the  larger 
tombs,  and  there  are  in  some  cases  lofty  chambers 
with  domed  ceilings,  and  other  chambers  below 
these  buried  deep  in  the  bowels  of  the  hill.  When 
these  tombs  were  opened,  after  an  undisturbed  re- 
pose of  many  centuries,  they  were  stored  with 
mummies.  These  have  all  disappeared.  You 
will  find  them  in  the  museums  scattered  all  over 
the  face  of  the  globe.  Thousands  of  them  were 
destroyed  for  the  wood  which  inclosed'  them,  for 
the  linen  windings,  which  were  worked  over  into 
cheap  paper,  and  for  the  trinkets,  the  rings,  neck- 
laces, jewels,  and  amulets,  which  were  seized  by 
the  Arabs  and  are  now  daily  offered  for  sale.  The 
supply  is  almost  inexhaustible,  for  all  these  hills 
are  honeycombed  with  mummy  pits,  and  a tithe 
of  them  have  not  yet  been  opened.  I found 
heaps  of  broken  skeletons,  arms,  legs,  and  hands, 
wrapped  in  fragments  of  coarse  yellow  linen,  lying 
about  the  mouths  of  the  tombs.  They  were  con- 
sidered too  imperfect  to  offer  for  sale,  and  had  I 
chosen  I could  have  brought  away  some  bushels 
of  fragments. 

Apes,  cats,  and  ibises  have  been  honored  with 
interment  in  these  same  hills,  among  the  kings  and 


THEBES. 


1 179 


the  queens  and  the  princely  citizens  of  Thebes,  but 
their  mummified  remains  are  not  often  brought 
to  light.  I have  found  a prayer  said  by  the  priests 
oyer  the  entrails  of  a body  about  to  be  mummi- 
fied. The  entrails,  having  had  the  burden  of  all 
the  sins  of  the  flesh  cast  upon  them,  were  com- 
mitted to  the  Nile,  and  the  body,  spiced  and  per- 
fumed and  incased  in  sycamore,  was  laid  away 
in  its  “ eternal  habitation,”  an  eternity  of  some 
three  thousand  years  that  has  come  to  its  conclu- 
sion before  the  invasion  of  the  traveling  world. 
The  priest,  having  borne  the  entrails  of  the  de- 
ceased to  the  banks  of  the  Nile,  delivered  over 
them  this  prayer  of  the  soul  : 

“ Oh,  thou  sun,  our  sovereign  lord ! and  all  ye  deities 
who  have  given  life  to  man ! receive  me  and  grant  me  an 
abode  with  the  eternal  gods ! During  the  whole  course 
of  my  life  I have  scrupulously  worshiped  the  gods  my 
father  taught  me  to  adore;  I have  ever  honored  my 
parents,  who  begat  this  body ; I have  killed  no  one ; I 
have  not  defrauded  any  one,  nor  have  I done  any  injury 
to  any  man : and  if  I have  committed  any  other  faults 
during  my  life,  either  in  eating  or  drinking,  it  has  not 
been  for  myself,  but  for  these  things." 

From  a high  cliff  that  overhangs  the  plains  of 
Thebes  I looked  down  upon  the  spring  meadows 
and  saw  the  shadow  of  the  temples  sweeping  east- 
ward toward  the  Nile.  We  were  surrounded  by 
a girdle  of  glorious  hills,  softened  with  the  sub- 
dued light  of  the  declining  sun.  The  beauty  of 


180 


HASHALLAH ! 


the  scene  was  beyond  description,  and  I strove  to 
conjure  up  the  shades  of  the  great  past,  but  out 
of  the  silence  came  no  responsive  echo,  and  within 
the  sacred  chambers  of  the  temples  the  spell  was 
broken  and  all  the  gods  were  dumb.  I lay  in  the 
deep  grass  at  sunset  under  the  feet  of  the  Colossi. 

A well  has  been  sunk  between  the  thrones  of  these 
solemn  watchers.  A naked  Nubian  toiled  at  the 
shadoof,  disappearing  from  sight  as  he  stooped  to 
fill  his  goatskin  bucket,  and  turning  his  curious  ' 
eyes  toward  me  as  he  rose  erect  and  swung  the 
dripping  burden  over  his  shoulder  into  a small 
canal,  the  thirsty  throat  of  the  meadow.  There 
I dreamed  of  the  dromos  with  its  double  row  of 
sphinxes,  down  which  the  Colossi  stared  night 
and  day  ; and  of  the  great  temple  that  stood  be- 
hind them,  no  fragment  of  which  remains,  and 
over  the  site  of  which  the  corn  waves  and  the 
crickets  sing,  and  I waited  for  the  voice  that  has 
hailed  the  morning  with  audible  utterance — but, 
no  ! The  wind  hissed  in  the  grass  ; the  flies 
buzzed  about  me  ; the  sun  sank  into  the  des- 
ert, and  the  twilight  paled  before  the  rising 
moon,  and  in  the  mellow  dusk  I returned  to  the 
shore  thinking  that  “Nilus  heareth  strange 
voices,”  and  may  hear  stranger  voices  yet  in  the 
hereafter  ; but  for  evermore  “ Memnon  resound- 
eth  not  to  the  sun.” 

There  was  an  evening  in  Luxor  when  the 
home  news  had  been  worn  out,  and  we  returned 


THEBES. 


181 


again  with  quiet  hearts  to  the  pastoral  delights 
of  the  Nile  life.  I remember  that  we  strolled 
along  the  river  shore,  and  fell  apart  in  pairs, 
and  came  upon  one  another  again  among  the 
ruins  of  the  temple  of  Luxor.  I fear  there  was 
something  like  flirtation  under  the  blind  eyes  of 
those  great  idols.  But  gods  of  stone  are  discreet 
witnesses  ; and  who  would  not  have  yielded  to 
the  mellowing  influences  of  such  a moon,  and 
such  a temple,  and  such  an  opportunity  ? Be- 
cause we  are  on  the  Nile,  must  we  be  prudish  ? 
Later,  we  took  a swarm  of  donkeys,  the  small- 
est visible  donkeys,  and  galloped  off  to  Karnak. 
Our  saddles  turned  and  launched  us  into  the 
sand ; when  the  saddles  were  secure,  the  little 
beasts  turned  themselves  and  went  down  on  their 
knees,  and  left  us  to  proceed  on  foot  or  in  the 
air  at  an  accelerated  pace.  We  were  silent  as  we 
came  upon  the  temple.  There  was  a spell  over 
it.  It  seemed  unreal,  that  avenue  of  sphinxes 
that  stared  at  us  as  we  approached  the  lofty  pro- 
pylon ; the  sand  deadened  the  sound  of  hoofs  ; 
even  the  boy  drivers,  who  are  not  slow  to  abuse 
their  animals,  clucked  softly  to  the  beasts,  and 
we  dismounted  at  the  entrance  to  the  pillared 
court. 

The  great  hall  of  Karnak,  than  which  there  is 
nothing  grander  in  the  world,  has  been  reduced 
to  figures  so  often  that  it  seems  absurd  to  repro- 
duce them  here.  It  measures  one  hundred  and 


182 


MASHALLAH ! 


seventy-five  feet  by  three  hundred  and  twenty- 
nine.  The  twelve  columns  of  the  central  avenue 
are  each  eleven  feet  six  inches  in  diameter  and 
sixty-two  feet  high,  without  plinth  or  abacus. 
On  each  side  of  the  avenue  of  large  columns  are 
seven  lines  of  columns  forty-two  feet  five  inches 
in  height  and  twenty-eight  feet  in  circumference 
— a congregation  of  one  hundred  and  thirty-four 
columns  in  a single  group.  The  hall  is  roofless. 
It  is  a forest  of  gigantic  pillars  so  crowded  to- 
gether that  the  slanting  moonbeams  fall  only  half 
way  down  their  length,  and  we  groped  about  their 
bases  in  thick  shadow.  Here  and  there  bars  of 
light  streamed  through  an  opening  in  the  walls 
and  stole  softly  along  the  solemn  aisles,  touching 
the  hieroglyphics  with  absolute  color  and  luring 
the  bats  from  their  slimy  nests  in  the  debris  that 
buries  half  the  temple.  It  was  like  a dream  that 
night,  the  measureless  majesty  of  these  columns  ; 
there  might  easily  have  been  a thousand  of  them. 
I could  readily  have  believed  it,  and  their  incal- 
culable height — surely  in  a dream  only  is  such  a 
temple  builded  ! Vistas  opened  on  every  hand  as 
we  wandered  over  the  vast  ruin — moonlit  avenues 
with  slender  obelisks  at  the  farther  end,  silver- 
tipped  and  of  exquisitely  graceful  proportions. 
All  the  wear  and  tear  of  time  and  the  iconoclasts 
can  not  mutilate  a dream  temple.  Daylight  alone 
and  the  glare  of  the  Egyptian  sun  are  able  to  de- 
stroy the  splendor  of  Karnak — the  Karnak  that 


FLESHPOTS. 


183 


by  moonlight  is  veiled  in  an  awful  beauty  that  is 
not  of  this  age  nor  of  the  last,  but  of  the  time 
when  the  immortal  gods  dwelt  here  and  filled  this 
sanctuary  with  imperishable  beauty. 


XVIII. 

FLESHPOTS. 

Dahabeah  Nitetis,  on  the  Nile. 

There  is  no  feast  in  Egypt,  no  birth-fete,  no 
christening,  no  circumcision,  no  marriage,  no  re- 
ligious festival  of  any  importance,  no  fair,  not 
even  a pilgrimage  to  Mecca,  but  the  fleshpot  is  in 
the  midst  thereof,  and  usually  it  is  the  chief  fea- 
ture of  the  occasion.  It  is  the  al’meh,  the  gha- 
zeeyeh,  the  khawal,  or  the  gink  that  brings  fire 
to  the  eye,  blood  to  the  cheek,  and  joy  to  the 
heart  of  the  Moslem — unless  he  be  exceptionally 
devout.  These  are  the  allurements  in  the  Rake’s 
Progress.  They  are  what  the  traveler  hears  most 
of,  sees  least  of.  Virtuous  Cairo  has  banished 
them  from  her  streets  and  cafes,  and  now  one 
must  seek  them  in  the  privacy  of  the  harem  or  in 
the  secret  chambers  of  the  pleasure-house,  whose 
doors  are  doubly  barred.  Under  the  palm  groves 
of  the  Nile  the  al’meh  sits  and  sings  her  siren 
song  ; we  have  heard  it  floating  on  the  wind  in 


184 


MASK  ATI,  AH  f 


the  mellow  twilight,  coupled  with  the  tinkling 
lute,  and  wondered  not  that  there  were  rebellious 
mutterings  in  the  forecastle  and  symptoms  of  mu- 
tiny, inasmuch  as  the  music-laden  wind  was  pro- 
yokingly  fair  and  bore  us  steadily  onward  out  of 
the  charm  of  the  al’meh’s  voice. 

In  every  town  on  the  Nile  there  is  a corner 
set  apart  for  the  ghawazee  tribe.  They  claim 
kinship  with  Baramikel,  favored  by  Haroun  al 
Easchid,  and  they  are  the  bewitching  stars  of 
these  Arabian  nights.  How  they  twinkle  ! pale, 
moon-eyed  women  of  ample  flesh  and  the  reck- 
less grace  of  drowsy  pards.  Dove-ejed  and  dim- 
pled, with  supple  joints  that  yield  to  every  at- 
titude, the  ghazeeyeh  is  trained  from  her  cradle 
in  all  the  arts  of  seduction.  She  has  nothing  to 
lose,  for  she  is  one  of  the  tribes  already  lost. 
If  she  marries,  her  husband  is  her  slave ; he 
thrums  on  the  ood  or  plays  on  the  one-stringed 
rahab,  and  sees  his  beloved  making  enormous 
eyes  at  the  young  bloods  who  ogle  her  impu- 
dently. If  they  be  dwellers  in  tents,  as  they 
frequently  are,  going  from  town  to  town,  he  at- 
tends to  camp  duties  and  leaves  his  bride  to  sun 
herself  in  the  liberal  patronage  of  the  town ; at 
the  cafes  that  shine  out  from  the  Nile’s  banks  like 
beacons — they  are  in  reality  the  river  lighthouses 
that  guide  the  belated  voyager  to  shore,  where  he  is 
sure  to  tie  up  within  hearing  of  the  monotonous 
night-long  fantasia  at  the  cafes — the  ghawazee 


FLESHPOTS. 


185 


hover  in  flocks.  They  quaff  delightful  draughts 
of  sherbet,  and  something  more  potent ; they  fill 
themselves  with  the  pungent  fumes  of  hasheesh, 
when  the  narghileh  reaches  their  lips  as  it  passes 
from  mouth  to  mouth.  There  is  always  a cup  of 
coffee  and  a chorus  for  the  entertainment  of  the 
wayfarer,  and  nothing  is  more  difficult  in  the 
whole  navigation  of  the  Nile  than  weathering  a 
coffee-house  when  the  barbaric  music  of  the  fan- 
tasia throbs  over  the  waters  and  the  voice  of  the 
al’meh  is  heard  in  the  land.  Again  and  again 
during  this  Nile  log  have  the  pages  been  left  blank, 
because  somehow  we  had  drifted  to  shore  and 
stranded  directly  under  the  eaves  of  a coffee- 
house. The  crew  at  such  times  are  wont  to  fly 
in  a body  ; we  follow  close  upon  their  heels  and 
expostulate,  but  mere  words  are  as  the  buzz  of 
summer  flies  to  them  ; they  smile  blandly,  point 
to  the  languishing  ghawazee,  and  with  the  artless 
charm  of  children  implore  “backsheesh.”  They 
take  their  sip  of  coffee  at  our  expense,  and  cele- 
brate us  in  song ; a chorus  is  raisable  at  the  short- 
est possible  notice,  and  a chorus  is  not  easily  cut 
off  in  the  middle.  By  and  by  we  return  to  the 
Nitetis,  where  the  ladies  sit  and  wonder  at  our 
delay.  We  are  off  again  in  mid-stream,  with  the 
great  sail  filled,  and  then,  and  not  till  then,  is  it 
discovered  that  one  of  the  crew  is  missing.  We 
draw  up  to  the  bank  and  call  him  by  name.  Our 
shouts  rings  high  above  the  confusion  at  the  coffee- 


186 


MASHALLAH ! 


house  and  the  barking  of  the  thousand  village 
dogs.  It  is  some  time  before  we  get  an  answer, 
for  there  are  few  echoes  on  the  Nile,  so  few,  in- 
deed that,  when  we  passed  Gebel  Sheykh  Hereede 
the  other  day,  we  all  sat  on  deck  and  roared  our- 
selves hoarse  because  we  discovered  there  was  a 
little  echo  hidden  away  in  the  hollow  of  the  rock. 
The  deserter  is  secured  after  a time,  rescued  from 
the  snares  of  the  sirens. 

I remember  the  close  of  that  memorable  day 
when  we  drew  up  under  Luxor,  flushed  with  sun- 
set. Thebes  lay  on  the  one  hand  and  Karnak 
on  the  other,  imperishable  monuments  of  a great 
and  glorious  past.  Scarcely  had  the  stakes  been 
driven  that  held  us  to  that  historical  and  roman- 
tic shore,  when  a handsome  boy  hastened  toward 
us  out  of  the  shadow  of  one  of  the  temples.  He 
bore  under  his  arm  a rude  darabulckeh,  a deep 
earthen  jar  with  the  mouth  covered  with  fish- 
skin.  Beating  this  primitive  drum  with  his  wrist, 
and  tapping  a light  tattoo  with  his  fingers,  he 
skipped  nimbly  to  and  fro  along  the  bank,  sing- 
ing his  song  of  love.  He  had  the  limber  spine 
of  a cat,  this  agile  gaish,  and  all  his  muscles  quiv- 
ered responsive  to  the  rhythm  of  a ballad  so 
iniquitous  that  a full  translation  of  it  were  im- 
possible in  a language  suited  to  the  requirements  of 
a less  passionate  people  like  our  own.  One  even- 
ing, as  we  were  drawing  out  from  land,  hop- 
ing to  drift  a few  miles  up  stream  before  the 


FLESHPOTS. 


187 


wind  died,  we  saw  a slender  little  creature  work- 
ing her  way  to  the  water’s  edge,  through  the 
crowd  of  natives  that  had  come  down  from  the 
town  to  see  us.  She  had  a haggard  face,  very 
old  and  worldly-wise  for  a child  of  ten  years. 
There  was  an  unnatural  light  in  the  sharp  black 
eye — to  this  hour  I am  not  satisfied  that  she  was 
not  insane — and  all  her  movements  betrayed  a 
highly  wrought  nervous  organization,  such  as  is 
not  very  often  met  with  in  this  luxurious  climate. 
We  had  drawn  up  stakes,  and  were  just  swinging 
off  into  the  current,  when  this  impish  child,  clad 
in  a scanty  robe  of  striped  blue  cloth  worn  com- 
monly among  the  fellaheen  (the  peasantry),  caught 
up  her  skirts,  and  drawing  one  foot  up  under 
her  as  she  stood  upon  the  very  edge  of  the  water, 
she  stamped  violently  and  repeatedly  upon  the 
ground,  snapping  the  fingers  of  one  hand  with 
great  energy,  and  all  the  while  chanting  a bar- 
baric chant.  She  looked  the  picture  of  a little 
fury  ; her  eyes  flashed,  her  brows  were  compressed, 
and  her  breath,  as  she  drew  it  in,  came  thick  and 
hard  ; the  spectacle  was  positively  alarming,  for 
the  child  grew  more  violent,  shrieking  at  the  top 
of  her  shrill  voice,  and  stamping  with  an  appear- 
ance of  the  greatest  rage,  as  she  saw  our  barge 
receding  from  the  shore,  while  her  efforts  were 
still  unrewarded.  We  threw  her  a few  coppers, 
which  were  scrambled  for  by  the  crowd,  and  in 
the  midst  of  the  tumult  the  dancer  disappeared. 


188 


MASHALLAH ! 


This  was  a young  ghazeeyeh,  who  was  not  yet  sure 
of  her  charms. 

The  consular  agents  at  Luxor  are  Arabs  who 
haye  learned  from  long  experience  that  the  travel- 
ing Christian,  though  he  may  leave  a spotless  rec- 
ord at  home  for  the  inspection  of  his  neighbors 
and  the  world  in  general,  when  he  gets  as  far 
away  as  Egypt  from  the  prying  eyes  and  busy 
tongues,  is  by  no  means  averse  to  ascertaining  the 
nature  of  these  fleshpots.  Let  us  accept  the  agent’s 
generous  hospitality,  which,  by  the  way,  we  do 
at  the  expense  of  a return  dozen  of  champagne 
and  a couple  of  flagons  of  maraschino.  The  house 
— a clumsy  Arabian  structure,  with  thick  mud 
walls — is  built  in  the  very  porches  of  a temple. 
Three  superb  columns  stand  before  the  veranda 
of  the  Consulate,  and  tower  high  above  the  flat 
roof,  where  they  support  a single  block  of  stone 
of  immense  size,  still  richly  ornamented  with 
hieroglyphics  cut  deep  into  the  stone.  A broad 
hall  runs  through  the  center  of  the  house.  Divans 
on  each  side  of  the  hall  suggest  to  us  the  necessity 
of  sitting  Turkish  fashion  or  reclining  at  full 
length  if  we  would  appreciate  the  utility  of  this 
Eastern  luxury.  The  hall  is  crowded ; there 
are  half  a dozen  dahabeahs  in  port,  and  “ Cook’s  ” 
little  steamer  makes  a breathless  halt  here,  in 
order  that  his  boarding-school  may  be  whisked 
through  the  temples  and  the  tombs,  and  be 
back  in  season  to  rush  on  to  the  next  station, 


FLESHPOTS. 


189 


without  letting  the  boiler  cool.  We  sit  in  sol- 
emn rows  on  each  side  of  the  hall,  and  are  appar- 
ently waiting  for  some  one  to  lead  us  in  prayer. 
Galaxies  of  candles  flare  upon  the  walls  and  send 
off  their  threads  of  smoke,  that  follow  the  air 
currents  round  and  round  the  room.  Coffee  is 
served  us  in  porcelain  thimbles  that  are  too  hot 
to  hold,  and  so  we  drop  them  into  small  vases  of 
silver-gilt  wicker-work,  and  drain  the  dregs  of  the 
muddy  draught.  We  gradually  lose  consciousness 
of  the  absurdity  of  our  situation,  and  begin  to 
look  about  us  as  if  we  had  some  business  here. 
We  are,  in  fact,  a promiscuous  party  of  ladies 
and  gentlemen,  who  have  gathered  together  to 
witness  a spectacle  which  is  considered  too  inde- 
cent for  the  virtuous  eyes  of  the  Cairenes  ! At 
the  top  of  the  hall  there  are  five  women,  squatted 
on  the  floor  in  a row ; behind  them  are  seated 
a half  dozen  musicians,  twanging  and  thumping 
the  national  instruments  of  the  country.  They 
play  skillfully  and  with  marvelously  accurate  and 
amazingly  intricate  rhythm.  The  gradations  of 
Arabian  harmonies  can  not  be  produced  on  any 
intruments  we  use  save  those  that  are  stringed 
and  without  frets.  Your  Arab  minstrel  splits  a 
half  note  in  two,  and  can  then  distinctly  flat  or 
sharp  as  the  case  requires.  Wagner  has  still 
something  to  learn  in  the  way  of  intoxicating  dis- 
cord, but  he  must  study  the  music  of  the  Egyp- 
tian past,  if  he  would  better  himself.  The 


190 


MASHALLAH ! 


gkawazee,  clad  in  light  garments,  that  cling  to 
them,  sprawl  easily  and  sport  with  one  another 
until  the  guests  are  assembled.  Then  they  rise, 
pass  up  and  down  the  room,  offering  a hand  to 
each  visitor,  which  is  in  no  case  refused.  These 
are  the  light  women  of  Egypt ; there  are  none 
lighter  on  the  face  of  the  globe.  The  feminine 
guests  look  curiously  at  the  dancers,  and  examine 
their  toilets  as  if  they  were  so  many  big  dolls. 
The  long  black  hair  falls  over  their  shoulders  in 
a vast  number  of  small  braids  strung  with  gold 
coins.  About  their  foreheads  a wreath  of  coins 
dangles  its  pendants  to  the  high-arched  and  heav- 
ily painted  eyebrows.  Great  hoops  are  in  the 
ears,  ropes  of  coins  about  the  neck  and  arms, 
and  at  the  waist  there  is  a loose  girdle,  a chain 
of  jingling  bells,  and  amulets  that  hang  negli- 
gently over  the  swelling  hips.  The  dress,  parted 
low  over  the  bosom  and  gathered  close  under  the 
breast,  is  excessively  ugly.  French  gaiters  in- 
case the  dainty  feet,  and  the  slender  fingers  clasp 
miniature  cymbals  that  clash  musically  and  mark 
the  rapid  motions  of  the  dancer.  The  al’meks 
sing  a prelude,  followed  by  the  first  dance  of  two 
of  the  ghawazee.  They  stand  with  their  feet  apart 
and  their  arms  extended.  The  castanets  ring 
like  silver  bells;  all  the  coins  on  the  foreheads 
and  the  necks  and  arms  of  the  dancers  jingle  ; 
their  bodies  quiver  and  undulate  ; they  swing  from 
one  foot  to  the  other,  sway  to  and  fro,  wave  their 


PHILiE. 


191 


arms  in  exquisitely  graceful  gestures  ; the  music 
is  incessant,  the  dance  unflagging ; if  there  is  any 
motion  of  the  feet  at  all,  it  is  merely  an  awkward 
shuffle  over  the  floor  from  one  end  of  the  hall  to 
the  other  ; finally  they  whirl  about,  tossing  their 
heels  in  the  air,  and  the  first  figure  is  at  an  end. 
Brandy  is  brought  them,  and  they  resume  their 
exercises.  The  second  figure  is  like  the  first,  only 
more  so,  and  the  evening  wanes.  The  guests 
withdraw,  most  of  them  very  much  bored,  some 
of  them  considerably  shocked. 


XIX. 

PHI1JE. 

Dahabeah  Nitetis,  on  the  Nile. 

Early  in  the  morning,  we  drew  up  under  the 
high  shore  of  Assooan  and  came  to  a dead  halt. 
In  the  center  of  the  Nile  lay  the  long,  narrow 
island  of  Elephantine,  looking  pretty  enough 
with  its  palm  grove  to  the  north,  but  sterile  and 
forbidding  in  the  south.  There  were  great  rocks 
all  about  us,  cliffs  above  us  that  rush  together  at 
the  cataracts,  and  sunken  rocks  in  the  river  for 
some  miles  below  the  town.  These  rocks  brought 
us  to  a standstill  the  night  before  we  reached 
Assooan,  though  the  wind  was  fresh  and  fair. 
Two  of  the  little  Nile  steamers  that  dart  up  and 


192 


MASHALLAH ! 


down  stream  like  dragon-flies  have  struck  and 
foundered  in  these  treacherous  waters.  Here  we 
turn  our  prow  to  the  northward,  for  it  is  too  late 
in  the  season  to  ascend  the  cataract.  No  sooner 
had  we  made  fast  to  the  shore  at  Assooan  than 
the  crew  gave  three  lusty  cheers,  and  the  digni- 
fied old  rais  fell  upon  the  neck  of  Michel,  our 
handsome  and  worthy  dragoman ; the  two  em- 
braced and  kissed  each  other  heartily,  in  mutual 
congratulation  upon  reaching  the  cataract  in 
safety.  There  was  a general  jubilee — everybody 
was  shaking  hands  with  somebody  else,  from  the 
first  captain  to  the  cook  from  Bagdad  and  the 
cabin-boy  from  Beyrut. 

Here  the  great  spar,  one  hundred  and  sev- 
enty-five feet  in  length,  was  to  come  down,  be 
taken  to  pieces,  and  lashed  from  mast  to  mast 
like  a ridge  - pole  for  our  awning ; divided  in 
three  parts,  the  longer  portion  overlapped  our 
barge  at  stem  and  stern,  and,  in  place  of  this 
sky-scraper,  we  were  reduced  to  a poor  little  sail, 
the  very  sight  of  which  filled  us  with  humilia- 
tion and  distrust.  All  the  winds,  or,  at  any 
rate,  the  most  of  them,  blow  up  stream.  As  we 
are  about  to  return,  it  behooves  us  to  make  the 
most  of  the  strong  current,  and  to  go  away  with 
as  much  canvas  as  possible.  House-cleaning,  as 
it  were,  turning  everything  out  into  the  sun  and 
remodeling  our  floating  home  to  a great  extent, 
we  left  everybody  in  confusion,  and  gave  our- 


PHIL.E. 


193 


selves  up  to  the  fullest  enjoyment  of  our  few  days 
on  the  edge  of  Nubia.  There  was  a high  bank 
above  our  dahabeah,  thick  palm  groves  crowded 
to  the  edge  of  it,  and  looked  over  upon  us  as  we 
took  breakfast  on  deck  that  first  morning  at  As- 
sooan.  Black  barbarians  sat  on  the  shore  in  a 
row,  offering  their  treasures — ostrich  eggs,  bows, 
arrows  and  spears,  baskets  of  henna,  and  rude 
jewels  of  beaten  silver ; but  it  was  so  tedious 
bargaining  with  men  and  women  who  could  not 
speak  or  understand  Arabic  that  our  purchases 
were  indefinitely  postponed.  Meanwhile  the 
offers  for  all  wares  were  slowly  advanced  from 
English  into  Arabic  through  our  dragoman ; 
from  Arabic  into  Nubian  through  one  of  the  Nu- 
bian sailors,  and  back  again  to  us  in  the  course 
of  time  through  three  languages. 

Assooan  is  marvelously  interesting ; nowhere 
else  have  we  found  such  strange  people,  such  at- 
tractive bazaars,  or  so  picturesque  and  barbaric 
a life.  All  the  riches  of  Central  Africa  drift  by 
desert  and  river  to  the  cataract,  and  are  strewn 
upon  the  sandy  shore  at  Assooan,  awaiting  boats  to 
convey  them  to  the  markets  of  Cairo  and  the  world. 
Coming  out  of  the  bazaar  in  the  afternoon  of  that 
eventful  day  of  our  arrival,  it  seemed  as  if  nothing 
could  touch  us  further  in  the  shape  of  bronzed 
skins,  nose-rings,  and  stiff  curls  gummed  and  glist- 
ening with  castor-oil ; but,  at  sunset,  as  we  stood 
on  one  of  the  heights  that  overhang  the  Nile  about 
13 


194 


MASHALLAH ! 


the  cataract,  we  looked  down  upon  a broad  beach 
along  which  twenty  barges  were  stranded,  and 
over  which  bales  of  costly  merchandise  were 
strewn  as  carelessly  as  if  they  were  so  much  raw 
cotton.  There  were  tons  of  ostrich  feathers, 
packed  solid,  covered  with  coarse  sacking,  and 
tied  with  ropes  ; cords  of  ivory  tusks,  bushels  of 
clumsy  bracelets,  girdles,  and  hoops  for  the  ears 
and  nose,  made  of  dull,  white,  beaten  silver ; bun- 
dles of  ebony,  and  an  indescribable  collection  of 
curios,  all  heaped  together  in  splendid  confusion 
on  the  sand.  Rows  of  complaining  camels  were 
kneeling  close  at  hand,  a caravan  from  the  Soudan. 
Watchmen  were  squatted  about  in  groups,  enter- 
taining themselves  with  coffee  or  singing  to  the 
accompaniment  of  lutes  of  the  very  rudest  descrip- 
tion. In  the  evening  small  fires  were  kindled  up 
and  down  the  beach  ; dark  men  were  seen  grouped 
about  them,  cooking,  laughing,  chatting,  smok- 
ing ; and  all  night  long  there  were  the  tinkle  of 
stringed  instruments,  the  husky  and  mournful 
whistle  of  reed  pipes,  the  clash  of  cymbals,  the 
chorus  of  wild  songs,  the  clapping  of  hands,  and 
the  animated  contortions  of  the  dancers,  who  skip 
like  fauns  and  satyrs,  and  are  akin  to  them  in 
some  respects. 

It  is  thus  the  watchers  are  kept  awake  when 
the  shore  is  strewn  with  the  priceless  wreck  of 
a newly  arrived  caravan ; but  who  would  or 
could  sleep  on  such  nights  as  these  and  in  such 


PHILJE. 


195 


barbaric  Edens  ? Philas,  the  sacred,  the  enchant- 
ed island,  lies  six  miles  above  Assooan.  As  the 
river  is  too  low  at  this  season  for  our  dahabeah  to 
be  pulled  up  the  rapids,  we  all  seize  upon  stirrup- 
less donkeys  and  set  forth  by  land.  The  desert 
sweeps  to  the  very  edge  of  the  village,  and  there 
the  withering  heat  and  the  blinding  glare  begin 
to  tell  upon  us.  We  thread  the  narrow  trail  that 
winds  through  the  center  of  a Mohammedan  cem- 
etery that  is  picked  to  the  bone,  and  lies  bleach- 
ing in  the  sun  like  a skeleton.  All  Mohammedan 
cemeteries,  or  rather  all  Egyptian  cemeteries,  are 
pictures  of  absolute  desolation.  The  domed 
tombs  are  neglected ; the  slender  headstones  are 
thrown  half  over,  or  lie  buried  in  the  sand  ; not 
a living  thing  is  visible  save  the  lizards  that  sprawl 
everywhere,  and  here  and  there  a gray-green  this- 
tle nodding  in  the  wind.  Beyond  the  cemetery 
our  path  lay  between  great  black  rocks  that  rose 
out  of  the  sand  on  each  side  of  us  and  made  a 
long  narrow  valley  of  death,  through  which  we 
traveled  painfully.  Camel  trains  passed  us  at 
frequent  intervals — this  is  one  of  the  highways  of 
Africa — with  black  turbaned  drivers  swinging  on 
their  humps.  Very  often  we  saw  inscriptions  cut 
in  the  rocks,  the  names  of  travelers  who  passed 
this  way  two  or  three  thousand  years  ago.  These 
majestic  tablets  of  granite,  syenite,  and  porphyry 
seem  likely  to  preserve  their  fragmentary  histories 
to  the  end  of  time.  Indeed,  Egypt  is  the  begin- 


196 


MASHALLAH ! 


ning  and  the  end  ; what  shall  be  compared  with 
her  ? 

We  sought  shelter  in  an  oasis  where  the  imp- 
ish Nubian  children  pestered  us  like  flies,  and 
the  women  tore  from  their  necks,  noses,  ears, 
and  arms  such  poor  ornaments  as  they  delight 
in,  and  offered  them  for  sale.  In  some  cases 
these  heads  and  their  coins  were  almost  the  only 
covering  of  the  half-tamed  girls.  The  dress  of 
the  Nubian  maiden  is  a fringe  of  buffalo  hide, 
ornamented  with  large  beads  and  cowries,  and 
worn  about  the  waist.  Mahatta,  a savage  village 
just  above  the  cataract,  was  our  port.  There  we 
bargained  for  a boat  and  crew  to  bear  us  over  to 
the  islands  that  are  scattered  in  the  Nile,  chief  of 
which  is  the  queenly,  the  unrivaled  Philae.  Never 
was  more  ado  about  so  small  a matter.  We  en- 
tered an  open  boat  and  sat  in  the  high  stern  while 
our  dragoman  bargained  for  a crew.  But  for  him 
we  must  have  been  swamped  immediately,  for  a 
score  of  naked  savages  leaped  into  the  clumsy  craft 
and  took  us  by  storm.  The  faithful  and  long-suf- 
fering Michel  laid  about  him  right  and  left  with 
his  “ korbag,”  a snake-like  whip  of  hippopotamus 
hide,  and  the  agile  pirates  left  us  in  a body,  many 
of  them  plunging  into  the  river  to  escape  the 
fangs  of  that  lithe  snake.  Then  we  beguiled  a 
half  dozen  of  the  able-bodied  boys  on  board  and 
set  sail,  a very  shabby  and  unpromising  sail ; but 
before  we  had  swung  off  into  the  current  the 


PHIL^E. 


197 


natives  were  swarming  over  our  low  gunwale 
again,  enraged  at  losing  their  share  of  the  back- 
sheesh, and  Michel  was  once  more  forced  to  lash 
the  fellows  over  their  shoulders  before  we  got 
safely  out  of  their  reach.  We  landed  among  the 
rocks  in  mid-river,  and  climbed  to  a pinnacle 
where  the  best  view  of  the  cataract  is  obtained. 

This  cataract  is  no  cataract,  though  tradition 
says  it  has  been  such,  and  with  a roar  of  waters  that 
deafened  the  ears  of  those  who  lived  near  it.  It 
is  now  a rapid,  up  which,  through  a side-channel, 
the  dahabeahs  are  towed  by  a hundred  or  two  of 
natives,  who  swim  from  rock  to  rock  with  the 
rope  between  their  teeth,  and,  having  gained  foot- 
ing, haul  the  barge  after  them  length  by  length, 
taking  a turn  in  the  rope  and  a fresh  swim  be- 
tween times.  There  is  one  deep  channel  in  the 
rapids  down  which  the  water  rushes  like  a mill- 
race,  and  through  this  channel  the  returning 
barges  shoot  like  arrows.  The  passage  is  very 
dangerous  and  awfully  exciting,  but  it  is  made 
hundreds  of  times  every  year,  and  in  most  cases 
the  passengers  remain  on  deck,  having  first  se- 
cured their  loose  luggage  below,  in  case  the  barge 
plunges  violently,  as  it  sometimes  does.  Not- 
withstanding the  peril  of  this  part  of  the  Nile 
voyage,  very  few  accidents  are  recorded.  While 
we  clung  to  the  rocks  overhanging  the  “ shoot,” 
dozens  of  robust  Nubians,  men  and  boys,  entered 
the  river  at  the  top  of  the  “shoot”  and  made  the 


198 


MASH  ALLAH ! 


descent  on  logs — the  Nubian  ferry — in  one  minute 
and  a half,  and  beyond  that  they  would  have  had 
clear  sailing  to  the  very  sea,  had  they  continued  ; 
but  they  came  out  of  the  water  at  the  bottom  of 
the  “ shoot,”  shouldered  their  logs,  and  scrambled 
back  to  us  over  the  huge  rock  to  beg  as  long  as 
we  were  within  earshot.  Turning  up  the  stream  at 
sunset,  our  sail  sifting  the  wind  through  its  numer- 
ous rents,  and  our  barge  thumping  about  among 
the  rocks  in  a ridiculous  fashion,  those  small  Nu- 
bians danced  along  the  shore  and  made  the  ada- 
mantine hills  resound  again  with  their  ceaseless 
cry  of  “ Backsheesh  ! ” 

We  were  entering  the  iron  gates  of  Nubia,  a 
land  of  mystery.  The  cartouches  of  famous 
kings  are  graven  on  the  tables  of  stone,  so  that 
the  very  hills  have  become  the  monuments  of 
those  royal  guests  who  paused  at  the  threshold 
of  Nubia  and  left  their  cards.  Working  our 
way  up  this  black  valley,  with  the  water  surg- 
ing beneath  us,  and  the  wind  puffing  fitfully 
from  the  rocky  caverns  that  yawned  about  us, 
we  swung  under  the  shadow  of  a great  rock 
into  a stillness  as  of  death  itself,  took  in  our  sail, 
plunged  the  great  oars  into  the  tide,  and  like  a 
swan  swam  out  into  a watery  vale  sheltered  by 
jealous  hills,  black  like  the  Nubians  they  nourish. 
In  the  center,  right  before  our  very  eyes,  lay  a 
fairy  island,  green  as  an  emerald,  palm-fringed, 
mystical,  and  with  a temple  in  its  midst,  whose 


philae. 


199 


lofty  pillar,  graven  with  the  likenesses  of  majestic 
gods,  whose  colossal  columns  and  superb  arcades 
were  at  that  moment  transfigured  in  a baptism  of 
fire,  and  so  the  sun  of  Nubia  set  on  Philae,  the 
sacred  isle.  A few  strokes  of  the  long,  sweeping 
oars  brought  us  to  shore ; a broad  flight  of  mar- 
ble stairs  descended  from  the  platform  of  the 
temple  to  the  water’s  edge ; rank  weeds  and 
grasses  fell  over  them,  and  the  marble  was  broken 
in  many  places.  We  moored  our  bark  at  the  foot 
of  these  stairs,  and  immediately  dispersed  over 
the  island  in  the  wildest  delight.  It  is  a little 
island,  with  steep  shores  on  every  side.  The 
temples  are  comparatively  modern,  being  only  a 
little  more  than  two  thousand  years  old.  Part  of 
the  great  temple  has  been  defaced  in  a vain  at- 
tempt to  erase  the  sculptures  on  the  wall,  for  it 
was  at  one  time  used  as  a place  of  Christian  wor- 
ship ; but  the  temple  stands  with  its  indelible 
records  of  the  first  faith  we  have  knowledge  of, 
while  the  religion  of  the  Eedeemer  has  passed  out 
of  Egypt  like  a garment  that  is  changed. 

Philae  is  a huge  mausoleum  ; you  may  review 
it  all  in  an  hour  or  two  if  you  hasten  from  court 
to  court,  from  terrace  to  terrace  ; but  every  inch 
of  its  sacred  soil  tells  of  final  death.  The  tombs 
about  the  temples  have  all  been  at  one  time  hu- 
man habitations,  and  these  have  again  become 
sepulchres,  not  merely  of  a race  highly  poetic 
and  profoundly  skilled,  but  they  are  the  tombs 


200 


MASHALLAH ! 


of  the  last  of  that  race  and  of  a religion  the 
mother  of  our  own.  As  that  race  perished  from 
the  earth,  a spirit  of  love  was  infused  into  the 
old  faith,  that  through  it  the  new  race  might 
be  saved.  You  see  this  in  every  rock  page  of 
these  graven  temples.  Osiris,  the  redeemer  who 
died,  yet  triumphed  over  death,  a sacrifice  for 
the  people  who  worshiped  ; Osiris,  whose  tomb 
has  made  this  island  for  ever  sacred,  whose  holi- 
ness was  such  that  his  very  name  was  name- 
less in  the  days  when  the  most  terrible  of  oaths 
was  “by  him  who  sleeps  in  Philae”  ! What  were 
these  many  gods,  in  the  old  time,  but  the  deifi- 
cation of  the  attributes  of  the  Supreme  God  ? 
All  goodness  was  embodied  in  Osiris,  who  left  his 
abode  in  the  presence  of  the  Supreme ; took 
human  form,  yet  became  not  human  ; went  about 
doing  good  to  men  ; sank  into  death  in  a conflict 
with  the  powers  of  evil ; rose  again  from  the  dead, 
to  spread  blessings  over  the  land  of  Egypt  and 
all  the  world  ; and  was  appointed  Judge  of  the 
Dead  and  Lord  of  Heaven  while  yet  present  with 
his  worshipers  on  earth.  Here  it  is,  cut  in  the 
living  rock,  imperishable  and  indisputable.  In 
their  ritual  of  the  dead  you  read  their  plea  for 
salvation  in  the  works  of  mercy  thus  set  forth  : 
“I  have  won  for  myself  God  by  my  love  ; I have 
given  bread  to  the  hungry,  water  to  the  thirsty, 
clothes  to  the  naked ; I have  afforded  refuge  to 
the  forsaken.”  Life  was  so  rounded  four  thou- 


PHTL/E. 


201 


sand  and  more  years  ago  ; and  three  centuries 
and  a halt  after  the  Christian  era,  Isis  and  Osiris 
were  worshiped  in  the  temples  of  Philae. 

As  I leaned  from  the  lofty  pylon  at  sunset, 
my  eyes  fell  upon  a pavilion  that  stands  above 
the  terrace  overhanging  the  river  on  the  east  side 
of  the  island.  At  that  moment  its  pillars  were 
embossed  with  gold,  the  ripples  sang  beneath  its 
threshold,  the  very  palms  that  gathered  about 
it  seemed  to  do  it  reverence  and  to  wave  their 
boughs  perpetually  to  and  fro  in  a twilight  ex- 
quisite beyond  expression.  The  low  walls  be- 
tween the  columns  were  like  embroidered  screens 
that  but  half  hid  the  mystery  within  them ; the 
whole  glowed  like  living  embers,  which  a breath 
might  have  blackened  and  an  hour  reduced  to  a 
bed  of  dead  white  ashes.  I remembered  an  East- 
ern picture — the  only  one  that  has  haunted  me 
all  my  life — a pavilion  in  a palm  grove  by  an  en- 
chanted shore.  I had  looked  for  this  picture 
from  day  to  day  with  faint  hope,  for  I knew  not 
where  in  the  ancient  and  almost  forgotten  world 
it  lay.  My  heart  leaped  into  my  throat  when  my 
eyes  first  fell  on  that  sunset  Temple  of  Philae. 
It  was  the  picture  I had  been  looking  for,  and, 
when  the  full  moon  rose  above  the  hills  and 
flooded  the  river  valley  with  mellow  light,  the 
palm  boughs,  touched  with  silver,  waved  all 
about  us,  and  through  the  roofless  chamber  of  the 
pale  temple  shone  the  immense  blue  Nubian  stars. 


202 


MASH  AT.T.A  H I 


Later  there  were  the  plash  of  oars  and  ringing 
laughter,  and  the  bark  drifted  off  into  the  night. 
Two  of  us  remained  to  watch  for  the  dawn — a 
friend  and  I,  in  company  with  Yussef’s  trusty  rifle. 
On  the  very  top  of  that  great  temple,  under  the 
open  sky,  with  the  gods  staring  at  us  from  the 
low  parapet,  we  passed  the  night.  Once  I dreamed, 
but  it  was  a dream  of  falling  or  being  cast 
down  from  some  awful  height,  and  I sprang  up 
with  a cry  of  horror.  The  temple  swarmed  with 
shades ; were  we  not  profaning  the  Holy  of  Holies  ? 
Then  we  talked,  and  relapsed  into  silent,  listen- 
ing moods,  when  we  heard  the  voice  of  the  Nu- 
bian nightingale,  whose  melancholy  notes  seemed 
afraid  of  the  dark,  far  off  in  the  hills  about  us. 
One  or  two  other  birds  darted  over  us,  uttering 
short,  piercing  cries  as  they  discovered  that  the 
temple  was  profaned  by  our  presence.  All  night 
long,  with  scarcely  a moment’s  interruption,  we 
heard  the  creaking  of  the  sakia  ; one  grows  so  fa- 
miliar with  the  drone  of  the  water-wheels  that  the 
self-same  picture  is  perpetually  before  the  mind’s 
eye.  A rustic  shelter  of  palm  boughs,  under 
which  a buffalo,  with  his  eyes  clumsily  bandaged, 
travels  round  and  round,  turning  the  rude  wheel 
that  oyerhangs  the  river  ; a man  or  a woman,  or, 
perhaps,  oftener  a child,  sits  on  the  tongue  behind 
the  buffalo,  and  sleeps  to  the  droning  of  the 
wheel ; perhaps  the  beast  sleeps  also,  charmed  by 
that  drowsy  song,  and  then  the  song  suddenly 


PHIL.E. 


203 


ceases,  and  the  small  driver  starts  from  his  dream 
to  lash  the  beast  into  a walk  again.  The  music 
begins  like  one  long,  lazy  yawn,  the  chain  of 
water- jugs  run  slowly  over  the  wheel,  drop  down 
to  the  river,  dip,  fill,  and  rise  again,  clinging  to 
the  pegs  on  the  other  side  of  the  wheel ; at  the 
top  of  their  journey  they  catch  on  a trough,  tip, 
gush  out  their  waters,  and  go  down  once  more  and 
round  and  round  all  day,  all  night,  and  every  day 
and  night,  so  long  as  the  river  is  below  the  lips 
of  the  thirsty  and  unsociable  fields.  Visions  of 
homely  gardens  and  groves  of  high  holyhocks 
and  beehive  villages  in  midsummer  heat,  and  of 
the  everlasting  flight  of  the  buzzing  black  vil- 
lagers, haunt  me  whenever  I hear  the  monotonous 
complaint  of  the  sakias  ; and,  when  I am  beyond 
the  reach  of  their  unceasing  drawl,  I know  that  a 
squeaking  farm-yard  gate,  or  an  ungreased  axle, 
or  some  unused  door  swinging  on  its  rusty  hinges 
in  the  wind,  will  call  to  mind  the  long,  low  Nile 
banks  and  the  water-wheels,  and  my  heart  will 
leap  to  the  music  as  the  heart  of  the  Egyptian  is 
quickened  and  refreshed  when  he  toils  at  the 
ponderous  oars,  singing,  “Pull  well,  pull  long 
and  well  ! and  the  sooner  we  shall  come  to  shore 
and  sit  in  the  shade  by  the  sakia ! ” After  sun- 
rise on  the  morning  following  that  eventful  night 
in  Philae,  we  left  the  island  before  the  heat  of  the 
day  and  made  our  first  retreat  toward  Cairo.  It 
would  have  been  a bitter  experience  for  me,  the 


204 


MASHALLAH ! 


return  voyage,  did  I not  know  that  when  travel 
has  become  a memory  all  the  richness  of  it  rises 
to  the  surface,  like  cream. 


XX. 

DOWN  THE  STREAM. 

Dahabeah  Nitetis,  on  the  Nile. 

When  we  returned  from  the  enchanted  isl- 
and we  found  the  Nitetis  transformed  and  fully 
equipped  for  the  down  voyage.  All  the  trap-doors 
in  the  main  deck  had  disappeared,  leaving  seven 
small,  open  graves,  about  three  feet  deep,  on  each 
side  of  the  ship.  These  graves  were  peopled  by  the 
fourteen  able-bodied  oarsmen  whose  lives  for  the 
next  month  or  six  weeks  were  to  be  devoted  to 
rising  like  so  many  ghosts  out  of  their  respective 
mummy  pits  with  an  immense  oar  in  their  hands, 
and  then  sinking  backward  almost  out  of  sight, 
making  frantic  efforts  to  tear  up  the  bottom  of  the 
river  with  their  oars,  and  all  heaving  a huge  sigh 
in  chorus  when  they  discovered  that  they  had 
failed  in  so  doing,  and  must  try  it  over  again. 
They  were  to  have  fitful  interludes  of  song — how 
familiar  I have  grown  with  these  refrains  ! — full  of 
melancholy  and  very  often  exquisitely  poetical. 
Some  one,  usually  the  best  singer  in  the  crew, 
suddenly  lifts  his  voice  like  a lark,  and,  having 
poised  himself  securely  ou  one  long,  plaintive 


DOWN  THE  STREAM. 


205 


note,  lie  improvises  a single  sentence,  a sentiment 
suggested  by  the  passing  bird,  the  cloud  in  the 
west,  or  a more  fanciful  subject  evolved  from  the 
depths  of  a hasheesh  dream.  At  the  end  of  his  brief 
improvisation  his  voice  begins  to  quiver,  and  then 
it  drops  and  rises  again,  it  turns  and  soars  about 
and  finally  flutters  dizzily  to  earth  like  a tum- 
bling pigeon,  and  is  buried  in  the  breast  of  the 
singer,  who  sinks  with  a gasp  into  his  particular 
grave.  All  the  crew  cry  “ Ah  ” in  a simultaneous 
burst  of  enthusiasm,  and  then  there  is  silence  for  a 
moment,  broken  only  by  the  measured  stroke  of 
the  oars — a stroke,  by  the  by,  that  consists  of  a 
long  sweep  toward  the  bow  of  the  barge,  a plunge, 
three  desperate  lunges  under  water,  each  of  which 
causes  the  barge  to  lean  forward  as  if  it  were 
about  to  get  up  on  its  rudder  and  walk  off  ; then 
comes  the  flight  of  the  oars,  the  swash  of  the 
water,  and  the  deep  sigh  of  the  oarsman,  who  is 
equal  to  this  sort  of  thing  six  or  eight  hours  on 
the  stretch. 

Our  galley  slaves,  the  merriest,  most  contented, 
and  best  natured  fellows  in  the  world,  usually  row 
a couple  of  hours,  and  then  lie  by,  if  it  be  in  the 
heat  of  the  day.  At  night  they  are  less  sparing 
of  their  strength.  Again  and  again  I have  wa- 
kened in  the  dark  or  the  moonlight,  when  the  Nile 
was  like  a river  of  death,  it  was  so  silent  and  so 
full  of  mystery,  and  the  fragmentary  sailor-song 
stole  into  the  edge  of  my  dream  like  a serenade. 


206 


MASHALLAH ! 


Sometimes  the  chief  singer  seems  to  be  singing  to 
himself.  He  puts  his  thought  into  the  vaguest 
melody,  as,  for  instance,  one  evening,  when  we 
were  all  silently  relishing  the  silence,  he  threw 
back  his  head  and  cried,  joyfully,  “ 0 Night ! 
0 Night ! 0 Night ! ” and  then  the  chorus  cried 
“Ah!”  with  the  utmost  satisfaction.  There 
is  often  a deep,  a very  deep,  melancholy  in  these 
fragments  of  song,  the  same  melancholy  that  sub- 
dues their  laughter  and  makes  every  action  of  their 
life  gentle  and  almost  feminine.  The  singer  cried 
one  day,  as  a stork  swam  through  the  air,  “ Who 
shall  say  of  the  two  birds  that  passed  us  yesterday 
if  they  be  living  or  dead  ?”  and  again,  pulling 
through  a superb  twilight  toward  a moonrise  that 
was  already  flooding  the  east  with  splendor,  some 
son  of  Adam  cried  out  in  a delicious  voice  : “ Oh  ! 
thou,  who  knowest  that  I love  thee,  leave  me 
alone  ; leave  me  alone  ! ” The  burst  of  satisfac- 
tion that  followed  this  complaint  of  a lover  over 
lover  seemed  to  imply  that  these  followers  of  the 
Prophet  have  taken  the  edge  off  their  desire 
through  their  knowledge  of  this  earthly  paradise. 
Once  he  sang  : “ Oh,  bird  flying  swiftly  over,  bear 
this  message  to  my  beloved  ; and  you,  oh,  maiden, 
sitting  by  the  window  in  the  high  palace,  do  thou 
receive  it  for  her.”  And  yet  again,  growing  warm 
with  date  wine,  passed  from  lip  to  lip,  refreshing 
the  oarsmen,  “When  I love  thee  thy  bosom  is  the 
witness ; and  when  I kiss  thee  I devour  thy  lips  I ” 


DOWN  THE  STREAM. 


207 


Meanwhile  we  were  borne  onward  by  the 
strong  current  of  the  stream,  were  caught  again 
and  again  in  the  tremendous  eddies,  and  whirled 
round  and  round  so  that  it  was  at  times  quite 
difficult  to  say  which  way  lay  our  course.  Some- 
times we  drifted  rapidly  toward  the  shore,  and 
then  the  sailors  fell  upon  their  oars  and  pulled 
us  out  into  mid-stream,  and  we  went  backing 
down  the  river  awkwardly  or  swung  broadside 
upon  a shoal,  where  we  stuck  fast  for  an  hour 
or  two,  with  all  the  tide  pushing  hard  against 
us,  until  it  finally  pushed  us  clean  over  the  bar, 
and  we  floated  free  on  the  other  side.  This  sort 
of  thing  began  at  Assooan,  very . early  in  the 
morning,  while  the  town  still  slept  in  a tran- 
quil haze  of  palms  and  mimosas,  and  one  slender 
minaret  in  the  edge  of  the  grove  was  tipped  with 
the  first  rays  of  the  sun.  The  smoke  floated  up 
from  the  barbaric  camp-fires  on  the  beach ; the 
yellow  sand  hills  began  to  sparkle  in  the  morning 
light — I have  a whole  peck  of  that  fine  Nubian 
gold,  more  beautiful  than  any  rock  dust  I have 
ever  seen  elsewhere — and  from  that  hour  the  voy- 
age was  one  long  reverie,  interrupted  only  when 
we  paused  to  revisit  some  temple  we  specially 
loved,  or  made  brief  excursions  to  vary  the  delight- 
ful monotony  of  our  daily  life.  All  the  way  down 
stream  there  was  one  picture  that  haunted  us — a 
reminiscence  of  Assooan — that  will  be  the  last  to 
fade  in  our  memories  of  the  Nile.  It  was  the  deck 


208 


MASHALLAn ! 


of  the  Nitetis,  with  the  awning  spread  above  it, 
and  the  sailors  lounging  about  in  luxurious  idle- 
ness. In  the  center  of  the  group  stood  a young 
Berber,  a bronze  Apollo,  toying  with  an  immense 
ostrich  egg.  It  would  have  been  difficult  to  pro- 
nounce upon  the  sex  of  this  youthful  savage,  had 
we  judged  only  from  his  physical  beauty.  The 
haughty  loveliness  of  Lucifer  was  stamped  upon 
his  features  ; eyes  full  of  fire  ; passionate,  scornful 
lips ; the  nose  small  and  regularly  formed ; the 
jet-black  hair  tufted  over  the  forehead  and  thrown 
back  behind  the  ears,  where  it  fell  in  rich  masses 
between  the  shoulders.  A long  needle  of  wood 
was  thrust  through  it.  On  his  arm  he  wore  a 
huge  shield  made  of  hippopotamus  hide,  and  above 
his  elbow  was  strapped  the  villainous-looking  knife 
which  the  majority  of  these  people  carry  in  the 
same  fashion.  Our  old  rais  would  gladly  have 
purchased  this  splendid  fellow,  and  would  have 
profited  largely  by  him,  had  he  been  able  to  do  so, 
for  there  is  a fine  market  in  Cairo,  and  we  have 
passed  several  boat-loads  of  Nubian  slaves  hound 
for  that  port ; but  his  overtures  were  treated  with 
silent  contempt  by  the  hideous  old  man  who  fol- 
lowed the  hoy  about  and  played  to  him  on  a three- 
stringed lute  that  gave  forth  less  melody  than  a 
jewsharp.  All  the  Berber  wanted  of  us  was  a 
rather  extravagant  backsheesh  for  his  ostrich  egg, 
and  this  he  ultimately  pocketed  in  a corner  of  his 
single  garment,  a yard  of  coarse  white  cotton 


DOWN  THE  STREAM. 


209 


thrown  over  one  shoulder  and  tucked  in  under  the 
elbow,  where  it  was  secured  in  a double  knot. 
That  egg,  which  had  to  be  opened  with  a gimlet 
and  poured  out  in  a pan,  contained  meat  equal  to 
five-and-twenty  hen’s  eggs. 

All  the  way  back  to  Cairo  we  magnify  the 
smallest  episodes  and  enjoy  life  like  children. 
The  monkey  has  grown  used  to  sailing,  and, 
when  he  is  turned  loose  toward  evening,  it  is 
his  chief  joy  to  drive  the  native  crew  to  the 
verge  of  madness  by  attacking  them  on  the 
naked  calves.  When  fate  turns  against  him,  he 
flies  between  decks  in  a state  of  frenzy,  and  is  at 
last  captured  in  his  desperate  attempt  to  scuttle 
the  ship.  As  for  the  piano,  its  strings  have  be- 
come flabby  and  weak.  Three  of  the  notes  are 
utterly  mute,  but,  as  there  is  a fourth  note  that  of 
itself  sounds  a pronounced  discord,  the  results  are 
equalized.  We  are  thinning  out  the  library  and 
growing  hard  to  suit  in  these  last  days.  Oddly 
enough,  certain  volumes  of  the  delightful  Tauch- 
nitz  edition,  which  we  loaned  to  a downward- 
bound  boat  when  we  were  sailing  up  stream,  have 
just  come  home  to  us  from  a third  barge,  which 
we  have  met  on  our  way  down.  The  daliabeahs 
exchange  salutes,  visits,  late  newspapers,  novels, 
and  certain  table  luxuries  in  the  most  friendly 
manner  conceivable.  Only  the  other  day,  as  we 
came  to  shore  in  the  dark,  we  were  received  with 
a flight  of  seven  rockets  and  a broadside  of  Bengal- 
14 


210 


MASHALLAH ! 


lights  by  the  mysterious  barge  that  has  haunted 
us  for  two  or  three  weeks,  appearing  and  disap- 
pearing beyond  sudden  bends  in  the  river,  chasing 
us  by  night,  giving  us  the  slip  by  day,  and  all 
this  time  shrouding  itself  in  a mystery  worthy  of 
the  good  old  privateering  days.  On  one  occasion 
we  fancied  we  had  surprised  our  phantom  friends 
as  we  stole  up  to  a handsome  dahabeah,  ashore 
under  a starlit  palm  grove,  and  we  made  a national 
afi air  of  it — our  friends  being  English — by  sudden- 
ly touching  ourselves  off,  pyrotechnically  speak- 
ing, in  a style  worthy  of  Independence  evening. 
Too  late  we  discovered  that  we  had  been  glorifying 
the  annual  passage  of  a great  merchantman,  the 
proprietor  of  which  returned  our  salute  with  the 
immediate  discharge  of  fire-crackers  and  three 
squibs,  and  afterward  presented  himself  in  person 
to  offer  those  profuse  thanks  peculiar  to  the  mag- 
nificent East. 

Meanwhile  our  private  journals  are  growing 
ponderous,  and  reluctantly  we  see  them  draw- 
ing to  a close.  Probably  not  half  the  little 
affairs  of  Nile  life  have  been  recorded  : again 
and  again  they  recur  to  me,  suggested  by  a note 
of  music,  an  odor,  a touch  of  color  ; the  indelible 
association  transports  me  in  a moment,  and  the 
great  mystical,  eternal  flood  of  the  mighty  river 
pours  into  my  soul,  and  at  such  times  I scorn  any- 
thing so  modern  as  Rome  ! Indeed,  the  affairs  of 
the  last  twenty  centuries  seem  rather  youngish. 


DOWN  THE  STREAM. 


211 


This  is  one  of  the  inevitable  and  rather  ridiculous 
results  of  a Nile  cruise,  but  it  is  a fact.  When 
this  letter  has  spun  itself  out  and  my  pen  has  trav- 
eled over  into  Palestine  and  beyond,  I know  that 
a thousand  little  incidents  will  come  to  the  sur- 
face, and  when  it  is  too  late  to  write  of  them  how 
I shall  deplore  their  fate.  I remember  the  day  we 
drifted  up  to  the  high  shore  of  Neggadeh.  We 
had  been  steeped  in  silence  for  some  weeks.  All 
Egypt  is  silent ; the  human  voice  dies  unechoed 
in  its  warm,  dry  air ; the  very  birds  are  mostly 
mute,  and  our  ears,  that  have  been  trained  in  the 
noisy  schools  of  the  younger  world,  begin  to  ache 
for  some  familiar  sound.  Under  the  high  shore 
of  Neggadeh  we  sat  at  dinner  on  deck,  when  sud- 
denly out  of  the  air  fell  the  round,  full  notes  of  a 
bell.  It  was  like  some  angelic  message  from  the 
skies.  It  summoned  a flood  of  recollections  that 
brought  the  dew  to  the  eyes  of  some  of  us.  It 
seemed  to  me  the  sweetest,  the  most  delicious,  the 
most  luscious,  ravishing  music  that  ever  fell  upon 
my  ears.  It  was  a physical  luxury  to  listen  to  the 
melodious  pealing  of  that  bell.  I had  not  heard 
one  since  the  bells  of  Malta  rang  out  over  the  sea, 
ages  before ; and  when  its  music  ceased  Egypt 
was  more  silent  than  ever,  and  I ran  up  into  the 
fig-sheltered  cloister  of  the  little  chapel  to  thank 
the  old  Franciscan  monk  for  a benediction  that 
was  heaven-sent. 

There  are  sounds  in  Egypt ; the  donkey,  for 


212 


HASH  ALLAH ! 


instance,  is  not  silent ; tlie  sakia  snores  in  a 
summer  sleep  ; the  frogs  of  the  Orient  are  dou- 
ble-bass-profundos,  and  all  the  Nile  bank  through 
Upper  Egypt  is  lined  with  the  swinging,  the 
complaining,  sweep  of  the  shadoofs.  The  long 
sweep  of  the  shadoof  has  a pendulum  at  the  top 
with  a leathern  bucket  attached,  a huge  ball  of 
clay  at  the  bottom  to  balance  it,  and  is  lashed  to 
an  axle  that  turns  in  the  ungreased  crotches  of 
two  posts.  The  drawers  of  water  stand  under  the 
pendulum,  draw  down  the  leathern  bucket,  fill  it, 
and  then  swing  it  over  their  shoulders  into  a small 
reservoir  sunk  in  the  bank  about  as  high  as  their 
heads.  Two,  three,  even  four  of  these  shadoofs, 
one  above  another,  are  sometimes  necessary  to 
carry  a current  of  Nile  water  into  the  canals  that 
feed  the  broad  corn-fields  of  Egypt.  From  day- 
break till  long  after  dusk  these  primitive  elevators 
swing  up  and  down.  They  are  often  so  near  to- 
gether along  the  front  of  some  extensive  field  that 
you  can  see  twenty  of  them  at  one  glance,  all  dip- 
ping and  rising  at  regular  intervals,  and  all  creak- 
ing plaintively  and  painfully  in  the  melancholy 
chorus  of  laborious  toil.  The  slaves  who  work 
them  relieve  one  another  from  time  to  time.  Those 
who  are  at  rest  lie  on  the  bank  in  the  fierce  glare 
of  the  sun,  as  close  to  the  earth  and  as  fond  of 
that  hot  bed  as  sleepy  lizards.  The  toilers,  most 
of  them  young  fellows,  and  the  majority  of  them 
quite  naked,  throw  up  their  brown  arms  to  drag 


DOWN  THE  STREAM. 


213 


down  the  empty  bucket,  stoop  low  to  the  water, 
and  then  swing  back  their  burden  with  a regular 
and  powerful  movement  that  has  brought  their 
naturally  fine  physiques  well  nigh  to  that  perfec- 
tion the  Greeks  alone  have  immortalized. 

From  time  to  time,  as  the  heat  of  the  day 
increases,  and  the  hours  seem  to  lengthen,  these 
patient  toilers  lift  up  their  voices  in  a wail  that 
might  compel  the  pity  of  the  gods.  Again  and 
again  I sought  to  search  out  its  meaning  with 
the  aid  of  native  interpreters,  but  it  was  not 
easy  to  catch  their  words,  though  the  wail  rang 
over  the  waters  like  the  cry  of  a lost  soul.  It 
was  the  prayer  for  deliverance  out  of  a bond- 
age that  has  been  their  doom  from  the  begin- 
ning of  time.  It  was  the  irrepressible  sob  of 
hearts  broken  with  ceaseless  and  degrading  toil. 
It  was  a pathetic  plea  for  rest  and  refreshment 
and  sleep.  There  were  hunger  and  thirst  in  it ; 
there  were  misery  and  despair  in  it ; there  were 
a fainting  spirit  and  flagging  strength,  coupled 
with  patience  almost  superhuman  and  long- 
suffering  such  as  not  many  are  able  to  endure. 
But  throughout  the  length  and  the  breadth  of 
the  land  there  was  not,  and  is  not,  and  never  can 
be,  a shadow  of  hope  in  it.  These  accursed  slaves 
endure  all  things  because  there  is  but  one  avenue 
of  escape— the  long  grave  of  the  Nile  ! Many  of 
them  seek  it,  stricken  down  in  their  youth  ; many 
of  them  are  driven  to  it  that  they  may  escape  a 


214 


MASFIAT.T.ATT  ! 


fate  even  more  horrible,  and  that  is  being  seized 
in  the  open  day  and  dragged  in  chains  to  Cairo  (I 
myself  have  seen  this  spectacle  in  the  streets  of 
Cairo),  there  to  be  sent  to  the  war  in  Abyssinia  or 
Herzegovina  and  butchered  by  the  enemy,  or 
starved  by  their  own  infamous  rulers.  If  the  ear 
of  the  Almighty  is  not  deaf  to  the  cry  of  suffering, 
the  lamentations  of  this  people  should  draw  down 
upon  the  land  those  plagues  of  old,  seven  times 
magnified.  Stoicism  or  fatalism  is  the  salvation 
of  the  Egyptian. 

I remember  the  day  we  were  rushing  up  against 
the  stream,  our  sails  straining  in  the  wind,  the 
water  foaming  under  our  bow,  when  we  sighted  a 
returning  barge  drifting  round  and  round,  and 
making  little  or  no  headway  between  the  con- 
tending wind  and  tide.  Our  venerable  rais  at 
once  recognized  the  craft  as  the  one  on  which  his 
two  sons  had  set  sail  five  months  before.  We  ap- 
proached it ; all  parties  were  on . deck,  for  it  is 
pleasant  to  touch  your  hat  or  dip  colors  to  a pass- 
ing boat,  though  you  are  not  always  in  the  mood 
to  carry  civility  beyond  this  perfectly  safe  point. 
The  little  son  of  the  rais,  the  pet  of  the  Nitetis, 
stood  by  his  father  as  we  drew  near  the  down- 
ward-bound craft,  and  for  the  moment  in  which 
we  were  within  hailing  distance  the  crews  of  the 
two  boats  kept  up  a storm  of  salutations  that 
rendered  every  voice  unintelligible.  Close  to  us, 
almost  within  reach,  the  two  sons  of  our  rais 


DOWN  THE  STREAM. 


215 


leaned  eagerly  from  the  outer  rail  of  their  daha- 
beah  and  kissed  their  hands  to  the  old  man.  In 
a few  moments  they  were  out  of  hearing,  but  so 
long  as  a human  figure  was  distinguishable  we 
saw  these  handsome  lads  clinging  to  the  rail  and 
watching  us  out  of  sight.  Their  faces  had  looked 
unutterable  love  as  we  swept  by  them,  and  our 
little  disappointed  Aboolaila  curled  up  on  the 
deck  and  wept  bitterly  for  two  hours.  But  the 
old  rais  stood  like  a statue  as  his  boys  were  borne 
away  from  him,  and  then  he  turned  to  watch  the 
long  lone  shore  and  the  palm  groves  and  the 
weather,  and  assumed  to  have  been  in  no  wise 
disconcerted  ; but  the  eyes  of  the  old  man  were 
dimmed  with  tears,  and  that  evening,  when  the 
sun  set  gloriously,  he  spread  his  carpet  on  the 
quarter-deck  and  turned  a sad  face  to  Mecca,  and 
I know  for  certain  that  his  prayers  were  longer 
than  common. 

My  crocodile  ? Was  there  ever  a Nile  cruiser 
without  his  shot  at  the  ugly  beast  ? The  fussy 
little  steamers  have  robbed  the  river  of  very  much 
of  its  poetry  ; so  have  the  half  dozen  sugar  mills 
and  the  two  or  three  steam  pumps,  but  the  croco- 
dile has  emigrated  to  Nubia,  and  there  for  the 
present  he  suns  himself  and  receives  the  bullets 
of  the  British  sportsmen  as  if  they  were  so  many 
gooseberries.  If  you  would  see  my  crocodile,  you 
must  drop  into  the  bazaar  of  Assooan  and  inquire 
for  the  only  mummy  on  the  premises.  He  is 


216 


MASHALLAH ! 


about  ten  feet  long,  with  the  hollowest  of  stom- 
achs, and  looks  as  if  he  were  shingled  with  old 
shoe  leather.  I could  hare  dropped  him  on  the 
wing  with  a one-hundred-franc  note  ; but  ostrich 
eggs,  Nubian  girdles,  amulets  from  the  tombs  of 
the  kings — that  sort  of  thing  likes  me  better.  In 
the  spirit  of  that  fox  who  was  rather  particular  as 
to  his  diet,  and  said  as  much  on  a certain  occa- 
sion, your  stuffed  crocodile  is  a bore.  But  we 
did  capture  one  of  those  extraordinary  birds  that 
walk  into  the  mouth  of  the  crocodile  when  he 
sleeps  with  his  jaw  up,  and  there  plucks  the 
plump  leech  from  his  tongue.  This  coal-black 
bird  has  the  eyes  of  an  angel,  but  its  wings  were 
the  wings  of  the  devil,  with  sharp  horns  thrust  out 
from  the  first  joint. 

We  have  come  back  within  sound  of  the  rail- 
way traffic  and  within  sight  of  the  rushing  cloud 
of  smoke  that  hurries  daily  to  Cairo.  Some  of 
my  companions  are  impatient  to  begin  expe- 
riences in  Palestine,  and  off  they  go  by  train 
from  one  of  the  several  stations  near  the  river 
bank.  I stay  to  the  end,  the  bitter  end  ; the 
only  unwelcome  experience  in  the  whole  cruise. 
For  two  days  we  tarry  under  a protecting  palm 
grove  within  twenty  miles  of  Cairo,  beaten  back 
by  the  unwilling  winds.  I bless  every  breath 
that  prolongs  the  voyage,  though  the  air  is  dark 
with  sand-clouds  and  my  flesh  prickles  with  the 
withering  heat  of  the  Jchamaseen.  If  we  could 


THE  MOOLID  OF  THE  PROPHET. 


217 


have  rounded  a single  point,  we  might  have 
rushed  on  to  the  port  of  Boulak,  and  in  three 
hours  or  less  time  have  been  disporting  ourselves 
in  the  luxurious  life  of  the  metropolis.  We  did  it 
later ; but  when  we  did  it  I knew  that  the  most 
unique,  the  most  beguiling,  the  most  profitable 
experience  of  my  life  had  rounded  to  a close,  and 
with  a heavy  heart,  and  a headache,  and  a gen- 
eral depression,  spiritual,  mental,  and  physical,  I 
bade  adieu  to  my  good  friends  one  and  all,  and 
turned  my  back  on  the  dear  old  Nitetis,  my  home 
for  two  of  the  very  happiest  months  I ever  hope 
to  pass.  But  there  is  a consolation  in  the  thought 
that  the  remembrance  of  this  voyage  must  be  a 
joy  to  me  for  ever  and  a day. 


XXI. 

THE  MOOLID  OF  THE  PROPHET. 

The  April  heat  was  increasing  in  Grand  Cairo. 
Under  its  enervating  influence  I subsided  into  a 
hasheesh  frame  of  mind,  and  passed  my  time  be- 
tween the  bath  and  the  nargileh,  the  victim  of 
brief  and  fitful  moods. 

Suddenly  all  Cairo  began  talking  of  the  Prophet 
and  his  Moolid.  It  is  the  birthnight  festival  of 
Islamism,  the  nativity  of  Mahomet,  the  chief  fete 
of  the  Oriental  year.  Of  course  I was  shaken  like 


218 


MASHALLAH ! 


an  aspen  at  the  prospect : the  bath  and  the  bub- 
bling pipe  were  forgotten  ; I thought  only  of  the 
Zikrs  or  the  dervish  ceremonials,  and  of  the  Zik- 
keers,  those  bedraggled,  petticoated  fellows,  with 
their  tall,  brimless  felt  hats  that  resemble  inverted 
flower-pots.  The  thought  recalled  to  my  mind  a 
certain  solitary  pilgrimage  to  a convent  mosque, 
where  the  dervishes  passed  out  of  their  dusty 
cloister  into  a two-gafleried  rotunda — a solemn 
procession  of  meditative  souls  that  speedily  scat- 
tered and  began  spinning  like  so  many  tops. 

Again  I heard  weird  music  ; the  thin,  hoarse 
voice  of  a flute  rose  beyond  a choir-screen  of  fret- 
ted gold.  The  husky  throat  of  that  melodious 
instrument  seemed  to  choke  at  first,  and  the  voice 
stopped  short,  checked  in  the  middle  of  a note. 
It  bubbled,  gathered  force  and  strength,  and  then 
poured  forth  such  a rich,  clear,  prolonged  volume 
of  sound  as  startled  us  all  into  breathless  silence. 
It  was  like  an  uninterrupted  moonbeam,  that 
long,  delicious  note.  The  minstrel  took  heart, 
and  played  marvelously.  There  was  soul  in  his 
breath,  and  inspiration  in  his  touch ; there  was 
madness  in  the  theme  which  he  embroidered  with 
a thousand  fanciful  patterns,  after  the  manner  of 
the  East.  He  knew  his  art  when  he  laid  that 
reed  to  his  lips  and  trailed  a melody  through 
the  whole  range  of  harmony,  giving  it  as  much 
warmth  and  color  as  if  it  were  spun  out  of  the 
seven-toned  shadow  of  a prism.  It  was  impossi- 


THE  MOOLID  OF  THE  PROPHET. 


210 


ble  to  follow  the  theme  of  the  cunning  flutist ; as 
soon  hope  to  track  a swallow  in  the  dusk.  It 
appeared  and  disappeared  ; it  soared  in  ecstatic 
upward  curves ; it  quivered  in  rapturous  suspense  ; 
it  sank  in  passionate  sighs  but  half  expressed,  half 
inexpressible  ; it  darted  hither  and  thither  in  sud- 
den delirium,  a golden  maze  of  melody ; then, 
with  a piercing  cry  that  pricked  the  heart  of  the 
listener,  it  floated  down  through  space,  a broken, 
trembling,  fine-drawn  silver  thread,  lighter  than 
gossamer,  softer  than  carded  silk.  I listened  pain- 
fully, but  the  angelic  voice  had  faded  like  the 
moonbeam  ; yet  still  I listened,  though  the  si- 
lence that  followed  was  breathless  and  profound. 

Meanwhile  the  Zikkeers  passed  within  the 
charmed  circle  under  the  rotunda  ; made,  each  in 
his  turn,  a reverential  salaam  to  the  sheik,  who 
was  seated  cross-legged  on  his  mat  at  one  side  of 
the  circle.  Music  again  reverberated  from  the 
screened  choir — a concord  of  sounds  not  over- 
sweet, and  certainly  less  interesting  than  was  the 
more  spiritual  invocation. 

Gradually  the  Zikkeers  began  slowly  turning, 
one  after  another,  and  scattering  themselves  over 
the  arena,  which  they  filled.  There  was  room 
enough  for  all  to  turn  in,  to  extend  their  arms 
freely,  to  expand  their  skirts  like  tents.  When 
by  chance  two  skirts  came  in  contact,  each  col- 
lapsed immediately  and  clung  for  a moment  to 
the  slim  body  of  the  Zikkeer  before  it  was  again 


220 


MASHALLAH ! 


inflated.  Some  of  the  Zikkeers,  turning  slowly, 
made  the  circuit  of  the  arena.  Some  whirled  in 
one  spot,  never  raising  their  left  heel  from  the 
floor,  but  paddling  with  their  right  foot  contin- 
ually, and  spinning,  each  on  its  own  pivot,  for  a 
good  half  hour. 

Most  of  these  dervishes  were  grim,  mean-eyed, 
filthy  men,  past  the  prime  of  life.  There  was  but 
one  in  the  score  who  showed  any  enthusiasm,  any 
sentiment,  or  indeed  much  interest  in  the  religi- 
ous diversions  of  the  hour.  The  others  were  me- 
chanical spinners,  spinning  from  long  habit,  and 
with  never  so  much  as  a glimmer  of  expression 
lighting  even  for  a moment  their  utterly  blank 
faces.  But  that  one,  that  lad  in  his  teens,  soft- 
eyed,  oval-faced,  touched  with  color  that  went 
and  came  like  a girl’s  blush — how  he  whirled, 
with  his  outstretched  arms  floating  upon  the  air  ! 
His  head  was  inclined  as  if  pillowed  upon  some 
invisible  breast ; his  soft,  dark  eyes  dilated  in  ec- 
stasy ; he  swam  like  a thistle-down,  superior  to  the 
gravitations  of  this  base  world,  ascending  in  his 
dream,  by  airy  spirals,  into  the  seventh  heaven  of 
his  soul’s  desire.  What  wonder  that  his  heart 
melted  within  him  ; that  his  spirit  swooned,  over- 
come by  the  surpassing  loveliness  of  the  mysteries 
now  visible  to  him  ! Are  there  not  promised  to 
the  meanest  in  that  paradise  eighty  thousand  ser- 
vants in  the  perennial  beauty  of  youth,  and  num- 
berless wives  of  the  fairest  daughters  of  paradise, 


THE  MOOLID  OF  THE  PROPHET. 


221 


and  a pavilion  of  emeralds,  jacinths,  and  pearls  ? 
Shall  he  not  eat  of  three  hundred  dishes  served 
on  platters  of  bright  gold,  and  drink  of  wine  that 
inebriateth  not  ? And  to  him  the  last  morsel  and 
the  last  drop  shall  be  as  grateful  as  the  first ! 

How  the  brain  reels  with  watching  those  whirl- 
ing dervishes  ! How  the  ears  ache  with  the  mu- 
sic that  grows  wilder  and  shriller  every  moment ! 
The  throb  of  the  first-beaten  tar  gives  ryhthmical 
precision  to  the  waltz,  and  it  goes  on  and  on  till 
the  eye  of  the  spectator  turns  away  for  rest,  and 
his  feet  instinctively  lead  him  to  the  threshold  of 
the  rotunda,  where  a livid-lipped  eunuch  squats 
in  the  sun,  knitting.  You  would  think  that  the 
bees  had  stung  those  lips,  and  that  the  poor 
wretch  was  still  writhing  with  pain.  He  is  irri- 
table ; he  snaps  at  a child  who  annoys  him — snaps 
like  an  ill-tempered  dog — and  in  a final  fury  stabs 
the  youngster  with  his  needles,  and  goes  his  way 
snarling. 

All  this  came  to  me,  instead  of  the  repose  I 
was  seeking  in  the  deep  divans  in  my  chambers  ; 
but  my  reverie  was  cut  short,  none  too  soon,  by 
the  arrival  of  the  friends  who  were  to  escort  me 
to  the  Moolid.  We  dined  in  the  best  of  humors, 
and  with  as  little  delay  as  possible  we  girded  on 
our  armor  and  went  forth  to  El  Ezlekeeyeh,  while 
the  whole  city  was  astir  and  the  air  shook  with 
the  subdued  thunder  of  the  glib-tongued  popu- 
lace. 


222 


HASHALLAH ! 


A strong  tide  set  in  toward  the  field  of  the  fes- 
tival. We  flung  ourselves  into  the  midst  of  it, 
and  were  speedily  borne  toward  a bit  of  desert 
that  blossomed  for  the  time  being  under  the  spell 
of  the  Prophet.  We  passed  in  to  the  feast  of  lan- 
terns. In  the  center  of  the  field  stood  a tall  staff 
ringed  with  flickering  lamps  ; chains  of  many-col- 
ored lamps  swung  from  the  peak  of  the  central 
staff  to  a circle  of  lesser  staffs  ; festoons  of  painted 
lanterns  made  the  circuit  of  El  Ezlekeeyeh,  and 
flooded  that  part  of  the  city  with  the  soft  glow  of 
a perpetual  twilight.  A series  of  richly  decorated 
tents  marked  the  boundary  of  the  festival ; each 
tent  open  to  the  arena  and  thronged  with  Zik- 
keers,  both  whirlers  and  howlers,  performing  their 
gymnastics  in  the  name  of  the  Prophet. 

Swept,  as  we  were,  into  the  arena,  along  with 
some  thousands  of  Mohammedans,  whose  fervor 
is  at  white  heat  during  all  the  Moolid,  it  behooved 
us  to  accept,  with  so-called  Christian  resignation, 
whatever  insults  might  be  showered  upon  us. 
The  seller  of  sweetmeats  cried  at  the  top  of  his 
voice,  “A  grain  of  salt  in  the  eye  of  him  who 
doth  not  bless  the  Prophet ! ” The  dispenser  of 
coffee  dregs  demanded  thrice  his  legitimate  fee. 
We  were  rudely  elbowed  and  trod  upon,  and 
stared  at  by  eyes  grown  suddenly  uncharitable — 
eyes  that  shot  dark  flames  at  us  from  between  lids 
blackened  with  bands  of  kohl. 

We  saw  it  all : the  pavilions  hung  with  prayer 


THE  MOOLID  OF  TEE  PROPHET. 


223 


carpets  that  had  swept  the  holy  dust  of  Mecca 
and  Medina ; the  splendid  lanterns ; the  groups 
of  dervishes  who  had  been  fasting  and  praying  for 
a whole  week,  and  whose  brains  were  fast  addling. 
Many  of  the  devotees  were  lads,  brought  hither 
by  their  relations  who  had  been  through  this 
school  of  fanaticism,  who  had  run  the  awful  risks 
of  the  Doseh,  and  survived  to  encourage  these  in- 
nocents to  make  their  crowning  sacrifice. 

Several  of  the  small  pavilions  were  set  apart 
for  the  howling  dervishes,  whom  we  found  stand- 
ing in  semicircles  before  their  respective  sheiks, 
the  masters  of  ceremonies.  The  howlers  bowed 
in  concert,  almost  touching  their  foreheads  to 
the  earth  ; their  long  straight  hair  fell  forward  in 
a cascade,  and  swept  the  carpet  on  which  they 
stood.  Then  rising  suddenly  and  throwing  back 
their  heads,  while  their  hair  was  switched  through 
the  air  like  horse-tails,  they  cried  “ Ya  Allah  l ” 
with  hoarse  voices  that  seemed  to  shoot  from  hol- 
low stomachs  starved  for  seven  days  past.  How 
they  barked  in  chorus,  the  delirious  creatures ! 
How  they  rocked  in  the  air  and  waved  their  elec- 
trical locks  with  such  vigor  that  the  lanterns 
swung  again,  and  the  tent  bulged  with  tempestu- 
ous currents  stirred  to  fury  in  the  fervor  of  those 
prayers  ! All  night  El  Ezlekeeyeh  resounded  to  the 
reiterated  name  of  God.  All  night  the  pensive 
whirlers,  poised  on  one  heel,  waltzed  into  paradise 
to  the  beguiling  clatter  of  barbaric  instruments. 


224 


SIASHALLAH ! 


Somewhat  removed  from  the  solemnities  of 
the  Moolid,  the  populace  found  every  sort  of  di- 
version— strolling  players,  improvisators,  sooth- 
sayers, snake-charmers,  and  the  Oriental  Punch 
and  Judy.  High  swings  cut  the  air,  laden  with 
shrieking  Arabs,  and  when  the  rope  struck  a chain 
of  bells  that  clanged  noisily,  the  jingle  of  that 
high  jubilee  drowned  for  a moment  the  terrestrial 
hubbub. 

It  was  agreed  that  E and  I were  to  join 

the  Austrian  Consul  at  his  residence  on  the  day 
following,  and  accompany  him  to  the  Doseh.  We 
went  thither  at  an  early  hour.  Dazzling  ladies 
were  there  in  Eastern  raiment,  with  scarlet  fezes 
on  their  heads.  It  is  so  easy  and  so  natural  to 
assume  Oriental  habits  in  the  East.  Gentlemen 
took  coffee  and  the  nargilehs  in  the  drawing-room. 
We  were  beguiled  with  music  and  small  talk  until 
toward  noon,  when  we  drove  to  El  Ezlekeeyeh. 
All  Cairo  had  gathered  to  witness  the  most  aston- 
ishing religious  spectacle  of  El  Isl&m.  It  was 
with  the  utmost  difficulty  that  we  drew  near  the 
site  of  the  Doseh.  So  dense  was  the  throng  al- 
ready assembled  that  long  before  we  reached  El 
Ezlekeeyeh  we  were  obliged  to  descend  and  follow 
the  kawas  on  foot,  in  single  file,  working  our  way 
by  slow  degrees  into  an  avenue  kept  open  by  the 
persistent  efforts  of  the  military.  One  side  of  the 
open  way  was  lined  with  tents  gorgeously  fur- 
nished and  set  apart  for  the  accommodation  of 


THE  MOOLID  OF  THE  PROPHET. 


225 


numerous  officials,  both  foreign  and  domestic, 
who  had  been  ceremoniously  invited  to  witness 
the  Doseh  or  “treading.”  Owing  to  some  blun- 
der of  our  kawas,  we  were  ushered  into  the  wrong 
tent,  where  we  made  ourselves  quite  at  ease  among 
the  sumptuous  divans  that  lined  it  on  three  sides. 

The  harem  was  present,  under  glass  as  usual. 
Beautiful  Circassian  and  Georgian  women  sat  in 
their  English  broughams,  and  were  driven  to  and 
fro  before  the  tents.  They  eyed  us  with  marvel- 
ous eyes.  They  turned  again  to  regard  us,  with  a 
surprise  heightened  by  much  kohl  ; their  glances 
were  underlined,  as  it  were.  Who  would  have 
thought  a houri  capable  of  such  worldly  curiosity? 
Then  it  was  made  clear  to  us  that  there  was  an 
error  somewhere,  for  at  that  moment  a fleshy 
young  man  entered  with  a retinue  of  wise  men  of 
the  East,  and  greeted  us  with  a distant  civility 
that  smacked  of  Oxford.  It  was  the  hereditary 
prince  ! No  wonder  our  lady  friends  fluttered 
the  harem,  while,  all  unconscious,  they  sat  in  the 
pavilion  of  his  Highness. 

Our  tent  was  close  at  hand  ; we  sought  it  with 
the  nonchalance  of  travelers  who  rather  enjoy 
breaking  the  tables  of  the  law.  We  were  glad  of 
the  escape  and  of  the  occasion  of  it ; likewise 
grateful  for  the  slight  shelter  our  tent  afforded, 
for  by  this  time  El  Ezlekeeyeh  was  shrouded  in  a 
fine,  sifting  rain  that  sparkled  in  the  sunshine  as 
the  golden  light  shot  through  it.  Music  (plenty 
15 


226 


HASH  ALLAH ! 


of  it),  growing  louder  and  more  loud,  and  the  roar 
of  ten  thousand  voices  swept  down  upon  us,  and 
then  the  rush  of  heralds  crying,  “Make  way, 
make  way ! ” and  the  dervishes  thus  announced 
advanced  to  offer  up  their  bodies  to  the  Doseh. 
They  hastened  up  the  avenue  in  groups ; each 
group  was  clustered  about  a staff  decorated  with 
holy  rags  and  saints’  relics.  All  faces  were  turned 
toward  the  relics — the  haggard  faces  of  the  der- 
vishes, who  hung  together  with  arms  entwined, 
compact  as  swarming  bees ; sacred  banners  flut- 
tered down  the  whole  length  of  a procession  made 
up  of  these  grouped  dervishes.  Not  one  of  the 
victims  seemed  in  his  right  mind ; the  majority 
of  them  were  idiotic.  Their  swollen  tongues 
lolled  from  their  mouths ; their  heads  wagged 
wearily  on  their  shoulders,  and  their  eyes  were 
either  closed,  or  fixed  and  staring.  Many  of  them 
were  naked  to  the  waist,  turbanless,  barefooted, 
and  barelegged  to  the  knee.  In  fact,  they  were 
of  the  lowest  orders  of  the  East,  impoverished, 
fanatical,  forlorn.  They  hastened  to  the  top  of 
the  avenue,  a part  of  those  in  each  group  running 
backward.  "When  they  had  assembled  to  the 
number  of  four  hundred,  the  friends  who  accom- 
panied them  separated  each  cluster  of  dervishes, 
and  began  paving  the  way  with  their  bodies. 
They  lay  face  down  in  the  dust,  the  arms  crossed 
under  the  forehead ; they  were  ranged  shoulder 
to  shoulder,  hip  to  hip,  though  the  heads  were 


THE  HOOLID  OF  THE  PROPHET. 


227 


not  always  turned  in  the  same  direction,  but  were 
occasionally  reversed.  Friends  gathered  at  the 
head  of  each  of  the  dervishes,  and  with  the  vo- 
luminous breadths  of  their  garments  fanned  the 
prostrate  forms  rapidly  and  incessantly.  In  truth, 
the  dervishes  seemed  fainting  with  hunger  and 
fatigue,  and,  as  the  crowd  pressed  close  upon 
them,  they  would  doubtless  have  become  insensi- 
ble in  a short  time  but  for  the  fitful  breath  af- 
forded by  those  flapping  sails. 

I observed  that  the  majority  of  the  d:rvishes 
lay  as  still  as  death  ; but  there  were  those  who 
raised  their  heads  and  looked  wildly  about  until 
their  friends  had  quieted  them,  or,  as  in  some 
cases,  had  forced  them  to  lie  still,  while  the  con- 
fusion increased,  and  the  intense  excitement  at 
the  lower  end  of  the  avenue  announced  the  ap- 
proach of  the  sheik. 

A few  footmen  then  ran  rapidly  over  the  pros- 
trate bodies,  beating  small  copper  drums  of  a hemi- 
spherical form,  and  crying  in  a loud  voice,  “Al- 
lah!” The  attendants,  as  they  saw  the  sheik’s 
great  turban  nodding  above  the  crowd,  grew 
nervous,  and  some  of  them  lost  all  self-control ; 
one  man  standing  close  beside  me  went  stark  mad, 
and  three  muscular  fellows  had  some  difficulty  in 
dragging  him  away  from  the  spot. 

He  came,  the  sheik  of  the  saadeeyeh,  swathed 
in  purple  and  fine  linen,  and  mounted  upon  a 
gray  steed.  The  bridle  was  in  the  hands  of  two 


228 


MASHALLAH! 


attendants  ; two  others  leaned  upon  the  hind 
quarters  of  the  animal  to  support  his  unsteady 
steps.  The  horse  was  shod  with  large,  flat  shoes, 
like  plates  of  steel,  that  flashed  in  the  sunshine  ; 
he  stepped  cautiously  and  with  some  hesitation 
upon  the  bodies,  usually  placing  his  foot  upon  the 
hips  or  thighs  of  the  dervishes ; sometimes  the 
steel-shod  hoof  slipped  down  the  ribs  of  a man, 
or  sank  in  between  the  thighs,  for  in  no  case  could 
it  touch  the  earth,  so  closely  were  the  bodies 
ranged  side  by  side. 

If  any  shriek  of  agony  escaped  from  the  lips 
of  the  dervishes  I heard  it  not,  for  the  air  was 
continually  rent  with  the  cry  of  “ AUdh-ld-Ia-ld- 
lah,”  the  rippling  prayer,  a breath  long,  continu- 
ally, reiterated. 

The  sheik  was  stupefied  with  opium,  for  he 
performs  this  act,  much  against  his  will,  in  defer- 
ence to  the  demands  of  the  people  ; he  rocked  in 
his  saddle  until  he  had  passed  the  whole  length  of 
that  avenue  paved  with  human  flesh,  and  then 
withdrew  into  a tent  prepared  for  his  reception, 
where  he  received  the  devoted  homage  of  such  as 
were  able  to  force  their  way  into  his  presence. 

hTo  sooner  was  he  past  than  the  dervishes 
began  to  rise  ; some  of  them  sprang  to  their  feet 
unaided,  and  seemed  to  have  suffered  nothing 
more  serious  than  a narrow  escape ; some  rose  to 
their  knees,  and  looked  about  in  a half  trance  ; a 
few  lay  quite  still  until  their  friends  had  assisted 


THE  HOOLID  OF  THE  PROPHET. 


229 


them  to  rise,  when  they  were  embraced  rapturously 
and  led  away  in  triumph.  But  there  were  those 
who  were  perfectly  rigid,  who  showed  no  sign  of 
life  when  they  were  raised  in  the  arms  of  the  by- 
standers ; and  there  were  those  who  writhed  in 
horrible  convulsions,  whose  clutched  hands  beat 
the  air  in  dumb  agony.  One,  who  lay  with  his 
head  at  my  feet,  was  stiff  as  a statue ; his  face 
was  emerald-green,  his  eyes  buried  in  his  brain. 
Four  men  bore  him  away  on  their  shoulders, 
but  his  condition  attracted  no  special  notice  ; in- 
deed, we  were  almost  immediately  whirled  into  a 
human  maelstrom,  out  of  which  we  were  only  too 
grateful  to  extricate  ourselves  with  whole  mem- 
bers. 

Each  dervish  is  entitled  to  two  horsehairs 
from  the  sheik’s  horse,  one  from  the  fore-leg  and 
one  from  the  hind-leg  ; those  who  are  injured 
during  the  Doseh  are  thought  saintly  according 
to  the  extent  of  the  damage  received.  The  others 
— there  is  a superstitious  belief  that  no  one  is  per- 
manently maimed — are  scarcely  congratulated  ; 
the  seal  of  the  Prophet  is  not  on  them  ; they  may 
return  to  the  world  and  the  flesh,  as  we  did,  with 
nothing  in  remembrance  of  the  Moolid  but  a faint- 
ness and  nausea  that  embittered  the  next  three 
hours.  . . . 

It  was  the  night  of  the  Moolid.  The  minarets 
were  girdled  with  flame  ; the  heavens  flushed 
with  unnamed  constellations,  the  trophies  of  the 


230 


MASHALLAH ! 


Propliet’s  birthnight.  Once  more  I threaded  the 
narrow  streets,  and  saw  the  fruit-sellers  sleeping 
on  bamboo  litters  in  the  mouths  of  their  bazaars, 
with  only  a net  thrown  over  their  wares  to  pro- 
tect them  from  thievish  hands.  I saw  mysterious 
forms  passing  like  sheeted  ghosts,  wrapped  in  pro- 
foundest  mystery.  I see  them  now  ; I mark  the 
wild  music  that  floats  from  chambers  high  up  and 
out  of  reach  ; a flame  twinkles  in  the  lattice,  and 
light  laughter  greets  the  ear  as  I steal  away  from 
the  shadows  that  lie  under  the  eaves  of  the 
daughters  of  death — steal  away  into  the  solitude 
of  the  desert  toward  the  north,  for  I am  a pilgrim 
and  stranger,  and  the  end  is  not  yet. 


THE  END, 


Tie  Story  of  an  Honest  Man. 

By  EDMOND  ABOUT. 


“‘The  Story  of  an  Honest  Man’  is  a piece  of  work  of  the  very 
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DT54  .S86 

Mashallah]  A flight  into  Egypt. 


Princeton  Theological  Seminary-Speer  Library 


